ERTON 


OVIE 


arm  Leon  Wilson 


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LIBRARY 

UNlVtRV'TY   Of 

S^ACRUZ 


. 


MERTON    OF 
THE  MOVIES 


BOOKS  BY 
HARRY  LEON  WILSON 

Boss  OF  LITTLE  ARCADY 
BUNKER  BEAN 
EWING'S  LADY 
LIONS  OP  THE  LORD 
MA  PETTENGILL 
MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 
RUGGLES  OF  RED  GAP 
SOMEWHERE  IN  RED  GAP 
THE  SPENDERS 
THE  WRONG  TWIN 


MERTON  OF 
THE  MOVIES 

BY 
HARRY   LEON   WILSON 


GARDEN  CITY,   N.  Y.,   AND   TORONTO 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
DOTJBLEDAY,  PAGE  ft  COMPANY 

ATX  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYBIGHT,  IQ22,  BY  THE  CTJBTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY  Hf  THE 
UNITED  STATES  AND  GBEAT  BBITAM 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

AT 
THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PBESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 

First  Edition 


TO 
GEORGE    ADE 


CONTENTS 


I.  DIRTY  WORK  AT  THE  BORDER  .     .     .     .     .  1 

II.  THAT    NIGHT — THE  APARTMENTS  OP  CLIF- 
FORD ARMYTAGE 12 

III.  WESTERN  STUFF 30 

IV.  THE  WATCHER  AT  THE  GATE   -     .     .    ',     .  56 
V.  A  BREACH  IN  THE  CITY  WALLS     ....  71 

VI.  UNDER  THE  GLASS  TOPS 92 

VII.  "NOTHING  TO-DAY,  DEAR!"    .....  120 

VIII.  CLIFFORD  ARMYTAGE,  THE  OUTLAW    .     .     .  141 

IX.  MORE  WAYS  THAN  ONE 152 

X.  OF  SHATTERED  ILLUSIONS 164 

XI.  THE  MONTAGUE  GIRL  INTERVENES    .     .     .  177 

XII.  ALIAS  HAROLD  PARMALEE        .     .     .     .     .  200 

XIII.  GENIUS  COMES  INTO  ITS  OWN       ,     .     *     .  219 

XTV.  OUT  THERE  WHERE  MEN  ARE  MEN  .     .     .  233 

XV.  A  NEW  TRAIL     ..........  251 

XVI.  OF  SARAH  NEVADA  MONTAGUE     .     .     .     .  267 

XVII.  Miss  MONTAGUE  USES  HER  OWN  FACE  -     .  282 

XVm.  "FIVE  REELS— 500  LAUGHS"        .     .     *     .  30° 

XIX.  THE  TRAGIC  COMEDIAN       ...     .     .     .  315 

XX.  ONWARD  AND  UPWARD      ' » 327 


MERTON   OF 
THE  MOVIES 


•*-.  . 


MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

CHAPTER  I 

DIRTY   WORK  AT  THE  BORDER 

A  THE  very  beginning  of  the  tale  there  comes  a 
moment  of  puzzled  hesitation.  One  way  of  approach 
is  set  beside  another  for  choice,  and  a  third  con- 
trived for  better  choice.  Still  the  puzzle  persists,  all  be- 
cause the  one  precisely  right  way  might  seem — shall  we 
say  intense,  high  keyed,  clamorous?  Yet  if  one  way  is  the 
only  right  way,  why  pause?  Courage!  Slightly  dazed, 
though  certain,  let  us  be  on,  into  the  shrill  thick  of  it.  So, 
then 

Out  there  in  the  great  open  spaces  where  men  are  men,  a 
clash  of  primitive  hearts  and  the  coming  of  young  love  into 
its  own!  Well  had  it  been  for  Estelle  St.  Clair  if  she  had 
not  wandered  from  the  Fordyce  ranch.  A  moment's  delay 
in  the  arrival  of  Buck  Benson,  a  second  of  fear  in  that 
brave  heart,  and  hers  would  have  been  a  fate  worse  than 
death. 

Had  she  not  been  warned  of  Snake  le  Vasquez,  the  out- 
law— his  base  threat  to  win  her  by  fair  means  or  foul?  Had 
not  Buck  Benson  himself,  that  strong,  silent  man  of  the 
open,  begged  her  to  beware  of  the  halfbreed?  Perhaps 
she  had  resented  the  hint  of  mastery  in  Benson's  cool, 
quiet  tones  as  he  said,  "Miss  St.  Clair,  ma'am,  I  beg  you 
not  to  endanger  your  welfare  by  permitting  the  advances 
of  this  viper.  He  bodes  no  good  to  such  as  you." 

Perhaps — who  knows? — Estelle  St.  Clair  had  even  thought 

l 


2  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

to  trifle  with  the  feelings  of  Snake  le  Vasquez,  then  to 
scorn  him  for  his  presumption.  Although  the  beautiful 
New  York  society  girl  had  remained  unsullied  in  the  midst 
of  a  city's  profligacy,  she  still  liked  "to  play  with  fire,"  as 
she  laughingly  said,  and  at  the  quiet  words  of  Benson — 
Two-Gun  Benson  his  comrades  of  the  border  called  him — 
she  had  drawn  herself  to  her  full  height,  facing  him  in  all 
her  blond  young  beauty,  and  pouted  adorably  as  she  re- 
plied, "Thank  you!  But  I  can  look  out  for  myself." 

Yet  she  had  wandered  on  her  pony  farther  than  she 
meant  to,  and  was  not  without  trepidation  at  the  sudden 
appearance  of  the  picturesque  half  breed,  his  teeth  flashing 
in  an  evil  smile  as  he  swept  off  his  broad  sombrero  to  her. 
Above  her  suddenly  beating  heart  she  sought  to  chat  gayly, 
while  the  quick  eyes  of  the  outlaw  took  in  the  details  of 
the  smart  riding  costume  that  revealed  every  line  of  her 
lithe  young  figure.  But  suddenly  she  chilled  under  his  hot 
glance  that  now  spoke  all  too  plainly. 

"I  must  return  to  my  friends,"  she  faltered.  "They  will 
be  anxious."  But  the  fellow  laughed  with  a  sinister  leer. 

"No — ah,  no,  the  lovely  senorita  will  come  with  me," 
he  replied;  but  there  was  the  temper  of  steel  in  his  words. 
For  Snake  le  Vasquez,  on  the  border,  where  human  life 
was  lightly  held,  was  known  as  the  Slimy  Viper.  Of  all  the 
evil  men  in  that  inferno,  Snake  was  the  foulest.  Steeped  in 
vice,  he  feared  neither  God  nor  man,  and  respected  no 
woman.  And  now,  Estelle  St.  Clair,  drawing-room  pet, 
pampered  darling  of  New  York  society,  which  she  ruled 
with  an  iron  hand  from  her  father's  Fifth  Avenue  mansion, 
regretted  bitterly  that  she  had  not  given  heed  to  honest 
Buck  Benson.  Her  prayers,  threats,  entreaties,  were  in 
vain.  Despite  her  struggles,  the  blows  her  small  fists  rained 
upon  the  scoundrel's  taunting  face,  she  was  borne  across 
the  border,  on  over  the  mesa,  toward  the  lair  of  the  outlaw. 

"Have  you  no  mercy?"  she  cried  again  and  again.  "Can 
you  not  see  that  I  loathe  and  despise  you,  foul  fiend  that 
you  are?  Ah,  God  in  heaven,  is  there  no  help  at  hand?" 


DIRTY  WORK  AT  THE  BORDER  3 

The  outlaw  remained  deaf  to  these  words  that  should 
have  melted  a  heart  of  stone.  At  last  over  the  burning 
plain  was  seen  the  ruined  hovel  to  which  the  scoundrel 
was  dragging  his  fair  burden.  It  was  but  the  work  of  a 
moment  to  dismount  and  bear  her  half -fainting  form  within 
the  den.  There  he  faced  her,  repellent  with  evil  inten- 
tions. 

"Ha,  senorita,  you  are  a  beautiful  wildcat,  yes?  But 
Snake  le  Vasquez  will  tame  you!  Ha,  ha!"  laughed  he 
carelessly. 

With  a  swift  movement  the  beautiful  girl  sought  to  with- 
draw the  small  silver-mounted  revolver  without  which  she 
never  left  the  ranch.  But  Snake  le  Vasquez,  with  a  mut- 
tered oath,  was  too  quick  for  her.  He  seized  the  toy  and 
contemptuously  hurled  it  across  his  vile  den. 

"Have  a  care,  my  proud  beauty!"  he  snarled,  and  the 
next  moment  she  was  writhing  in  his  grasp. 

Little  availed  her  puny  strength.  Helpless  as  an  infant 
was  the  fair  New  York  society  girl  as  Snake  le  Vasquez, 
foulest  of  the  viper  breed,  began  to  force  his  attention 
upon  her.  The  creature's  hot  kisses  seared  her  defenseless 
cheek. 

" Listen !"  he  hissed.  "You  are  mine,  mine  at  last.  Here 
you  shall  remain  a  prisoner  until  you  have  consented  to  be 
my  wife."  All  seemed,  indeed,  lost. 

"Am  I  too  late,  Miss  St.  Clair?" 

Snake  le  Vasquez  started  at  the  quiet,  grim  voice. 

"Saprigtir9  he  snarled.     "You!" 

"Me!"  replied  Buck  Benson,  for  it  was,  indeed,  no  other. 

"Thank  God,  at  last!"  murmured  Estelle  St.  Clair,  free- 
ing herself  from  the  foul  arms  that  had  enfolded  her  slim 
young  beauty  and  staggering  back  from  him  who  would  so 
basely  have  forced  her  into  a  distasteful  marriage.  In  an 
instant  she  had  recovered  the  St.  Clair  poise,  had  become 
every  inch  the  New  York  society  leader,  as  she  replied, 
"Not  too  late,  Mr.  Benson!  Just  in  time,  rather.  Ha,  ha! 
This — this  gentleman  has  become  annoying.  You  are  just 


4  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

in  time  to  mete  out  the  punishment  he  so  justly  deserves, 
for  which  I  shall  pray  that  heaven  reward  you." 

She  pointed  an  accusing  finger  at  the  craven  wretch  wko 
had  shrunk  from  her  and  now  cowered  at  the  far  side  of  the 
wretched  den.  At  that  moment  she  was  strangely  thrilled. 
What  was  his  power,  this  strong,  silent  man  of  the  open 
with  his  deep  reverence  for  pure  American  womanhood? 
True,  her  culture  demanded  a  gentleman,  but  her  heart 
demanded  a  man.  Her  eyes  softened  and  fell  before  his 
cool,  keen  gaze,  and  a  blush  mantled  her  fair  cheek.  Could 
he  but  have  known  it,  she  stood  then  in  meek  surrender 
before  this  soft-voiced  master.  A  tremor  swept  the  honest 
rugged  face  of  Buck  Benson  as  heart  thus  called  to  heart. 
But  his  keen  eyes  flitted  to  Snake  le  Vasquez. 

"Now,  curse  you,  viper  that  you  are,  you  shall  fight  me, 
by  heaven!  in  American  fashion,  man  to  man,  for,  foul 
though  you  be,  I  hesitate  to  put  a  bullet  through  your 
craven  heart." 

The  beautiful  girl  shivered  with  new  apprehension,  the 
eyes  of  Snake  le  Vasquez  glittered  with  new  hope.  He 
faced  his  steely  eyed  opponent  for  an  instant  only,  then 
with  a  snarl  like  that  of  an  angry  beast  sprang  upon  him. 
Benson  met  the  cowardly  attack  with  the  flash  of  a  power- 
ful fist,  and  the  outlaw  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  hoarse  cry  of 
rage  and  pain.  But  he  was  quickly  upon  his  feet  again, 
muttering  curses,  and  again  he  attacked  his  grim-faced 
antagonist.  Quick  blows  rained  upon  his  defenseless  face, 
for  the  strong,  silent  man  was  now  fairly  aroused.  He 
fought  like  a  demon,  perhaps  divining  that  here  strong 
men  battled  for  a  good  woman's  love.  The  outlaw  was 
proving  to  be  no  match  for  his  opponent.  Arising  from  the 
ground  where  a  mighty  blow  had  sent  him,  he  made  a 
lightning-like  effort  to  recover  the  knife  which  Benson  had 
taken  from  him. 

"Have  a  care!"  cried  the  girl  in  quick  alarm.  "That 
fiend  in  human  form  would  murder  you!" 

But  Buck  Benson's  cool  eye  had  seen  the  treachery  in 


DIRTY  WORK  AT  THE  BORDER  5 

ample  time.  With  a  muttered  "Curse  you,  fiend  that  you 
are!"  he  seized  the  form  of  the  outlaw  in  a  powerful  grasp, 
raised  him  high  aloft  as  if  he  had  been  but  a  child,  and  was 
about  to  dash  him  to  the  ground  when  a  new  voice  from 
the  doorway  froze  him  to  immobility.  Statute-like  he  stood 
there,  holding  aloft  the  now  still  form  of  Snake  le  Vasquez. 

The  voice  from  the  doorway  betrayed  deep  amazement 
and  the  profoundest  irritation: 

"Merton  Gill,  what  in  the  sacred  name  of  Time  are  you 
meanin'  to  do  with  that  dummy?  For  the  good  land's  sake! 
Have  you  gone  plumb  crazy,  or  what?  Put  that  thing 
down!" 

The  newcomer  was  a  portly  man  of  middle  age  dressed 
in  ill-fitting  black.  His  gray  hair  grew  low  upon  his  brow 
and  he  wore  a  parted  beard. 

The  conqueror  of  Snake  le  Vasquez  was  still  frozen,  though 
he  had  instantly  ceased  to  be  Buck  Benson,  the  strong, 
silent,  two-gun  man  of  the  open  spaces.  The  irritated 
voice  came  again: 

"Put  that  dummy  down,  you  idiot!  What  you  think 
you're  doin',  anyway?  And  say,  what  you  got  that  other 
one  in  here  for,  when  it  ought  to  be  out  front  of  the  store 
showin'  that  new  line  of  gingham  house  frocks?  Put  that 
down  and  handle  it  careful!  Mebbe  you  think  I  got  them 
things  down  from  Chicago  just  for  you  to  play  horse  with. 
Not  so!  Not  so  at  all!  They're  to  help  show  off  goods, 
and  that's  what  I  want  'em  doin'  right  now.  And  for 
Time's  sake,  what's  that  revolver  lyin'  on  the  floor  for? 
Is  it  loaded?  Say,  are  you  really  out  of  your  senses,  or 
ain't  you?  What's  got  into  you  lately?  Will  you  tell  me 
that?  Skyhootin'  around  in  here,  leavin*  the  front  of  the 
store  unpertected  for  an  hour  or  two,  like  your  time  was 
your  own.  And  don't  tell  me  you  only  been  foolin'  in  here 
for  three  minutes,  either,  because  when  I  come  back  from 
lunch  just  now  there  was  Mis'  Leffingwell  up  at  the  notions 
counter  wanting  some  hooks  and  eyes,  and  she  tells  me 
she's  waited  there  a  good  thutty  minutes  if  she's  waited 


6  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

one.  Nice  goin's  on,  I  must  say,  for  a  boy  drawin*  down  the 
money  you  be !  Now  you  git  busy !  Take  that  one  with  the 
gingham  frock  out  and  stand  her  in  front  where  she  be- 
longs, and  then  put  one  them  new  raincoats  on  the  other 
and  stand  him  out  where  he  belongs,  and  then  look  after  a 
few  customers.  I  declare,  sometimes  I  git  clean  out  of 
patience  with  you !  Now,  for  gosh's  sake,  stir  your  stumps ! " 

"Oh,  all  right — yes,  sir,"  replied  Merton  Gill,  though 
but  half  respectfully.  The  "Oh,  all  right"  had  been  tainted 
with  a  trace  of  sullenness.  He  was  tired  of  this  continual 
nagging  and  fussing  over  small  matters;  some  day  he  would 
tell  the  old  grouch  so. 

And  now,  gone  the  vivid  tale  of  the  "great  out-of-doors, 
the  wide  plains  of  the  West,  the  clash  of  primitive-hearted 
men  for  a  good  woman's  love.  Gone,  perhaps,  the  great- 
est heart  picture  of  a  generation,  the  picture  at  which  you 
laugh  with  a  lump  in  your  throat  and  smile  with  a  tear 
in  your  eye,  the  story  of  plausible  punches,  a  big,  vital 
theme  masterfully  handled — thrills,  action,  beauty,  ex- 
citement— carried  to  a  sensational  finish  by  the  genius  of 
that  sterling  star  of  the  shadowed  world,  Clifford  Army- 
tage — once  known  as  Merton  Gill  in  the  little  hamlet  of 
Simsbury,  Illinois,  where  for  a  time,  ere  yet  he  was  called 
to  screen  triumphs,  he  served  as  a  humble  clerk  in  the 
so-called  emporium  of  Amos  G.  Gashwiler — Everything 
For  The  Home.  Our  Prices  Always  Right. 

Merton  Gill — so  for  a  little  time  he  must  still  be  known — 
moodily  seized  the  late  Estelle  St.  Clair  under  his  arm  and 
withdrew  from  the  dingy  back  storeroom.  Down  between 
the  counters  of  the  emporium  he  went  with  his  fair  burden 
and  left  her  outside  its  portals,  staring  from  her  very 
definitely  lashed  eyes  across  the  slumbering  street  at  the 
Simsbury  post  office.  She  was  tastefully  arrayed  in  one  of 
those  new  checked  gingham  house  frocks  so  heatedly  men- 
tioned a  moment  since  by  her  lawful  owner,  and  across  her 
chest  Merton  Gill  now  imposed,  with  no  tenderness  of  manner, 
the  appealing  legend,  "Our  Latest  for  Milady;  only  $6.98." 


DIKTY  WORK  AT  THE  BORDER  7 

He  returned  for  Snake  le  Vasquez.  That  outlaw's  face, 
even  out  of  the  picture,  was  evil.  He  had  been  picked  for 
the  part  because  of  this  face — plump,  pinkly  tinted  cheeks, 
lustrous,  curling  hair  of  some  repellent  composition,  eyes 
with  a  hard  glitter,  each  lash  distinct  in  blue-black  lines, 
and  a  small,  tip-curled  black  mustache  that  lent  the  whole 
an  offensive  smirk.  Garbed  now  in  a  raincoat,  he,  too,  was 
posed  before  the  emporium  front,  labelled  "Rainproof  or 
You  Get  Back  Your  Money."  So  frankly  evil  was  his  mien 
that  Merton  Gill,  pausing  to  regard  him,  suffered  a  brief 
relapse  into  artistry. 

"You  fiend!"  he  muttered,  and  contemptuously  smote 
the  cynical  face  with  an  open  hand. 

Snake  le  Vasquez  remained  indifferent  to  the  affront, 
smirking  insufferably  across  the  slumbering  street  at  the 
wooden  Indian  proffering  cigars  before  the  establishment 
of  Selby  Brothers,  Confectionery  and  Tobaccos. 

Within  the  emporium  the  proprietor  now  purveyed 
hooks  and  eyes  to  an  impatient  Mrs.  Leffingwell.  Merton 
Gill,  behind  the  opposite  counter,  waited  upon  a  little  girl 
sent  for  two  and  a  quarter  yards  of  stuff  to  match  the  sam- 
ple crumpled  in  her  damp  hand.  Over  the  suave  amenities 
of  this  merchandising  Amos  Gashwiler  glared  suspiciously 
across  the  store  at  his  employee.  Their  relations  were 
still  strained.  Merton  also  glared  at  Amos,  but  discreetly, 
at  moments  when  the  other's  back  was  turned  or  when 
he  was  blandly  wishing  to  know  of  Mrs.  Leffingwell  if  there 
would  be  something  else  to-day.  Other  customers  entered. 
Trade  was  on. 

Both  Merton  and  Amos  wore  airs  of  cheerful  briskness 
that  deceived  the  public.  No  one  could  have  thought  that 
Amos  was  fearing  his  undoubtedly  crazed  clerk  might 
become  uncontrollable  at  any  moment,  or  that  the  clerk 
was  mentally  parting  from  Amos  forever  in  a  scene  of  tense 
dramatic  value  in  which  his  few  dignified  but  scathing  words 
would  burn  themselves  unforgettably  into  the  old  man's 
brain.  Merton,  to  himself,  had  often  told  Amos  these 


8  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

things.  Some  day  he'd  say  them  right  out,  leaving  his 
victim  not  only  in  the  utmost  confusion  but  in  black  de- 
spair of  ever  finding  another  clerk  one  half  as  efficient  as 
Merton  Gill. 

The  afternoon  wore  to  closing  time  in  a  flurry  of  trade, 
during  which,  as  Merton  continued  to  behave  sanely,  the 
apprehension  of  his  employer  in  a  measure  subsided.  The 
last  customer  had  departed  from  the  emporium.  The  dum- 
mies were  brought  inside.  The  dust  curtains  were  hung 
along  the  shelves  of  dry  goods.  There  remained  for  Merton 
only  the  task  of  delivering  a  few  groceries.  He  gathered 
these  and  took  them  out  to  the  wagon  in  front.  Then  he 
changed  from  his  store  coat  to  his  street  coat  and  donned 
a  rakish  plush  hat. 

Amos  was  also  changing  from  his  store  coat  to  his  street 
coat  and  donning  his  frayed  straw  hat. 

"See  if  you  can't  keep  from  actin'  crazy  while  you  make 
them  deliveries,"  said  Amos,  not  uncordially,  as  he  lighted 
a  choice  cigar  from  the  box  which  he  kept  hidden  under 
a  counter. 

Merton  wished  to  reply:  "See  here,  Mr.  Gashwiler,  I've 
stood  this  abuse  long  enough!  The  time  has  come  to  say 

a  few  words  to  you "  But  aloud  he  merely  responded, 

"Yes,  sir!" 

The  circumstance  that  he  also  had  a  cigar  from  the  same 
box,  hidden  not  so  well  as  Amos  thought,  may  have  subdued 
his  resentment.  He  would  light  the  cigar  after  the  first  turn 
in  the  road  had  carried  him  beyond  the  eagle  eye  of  its 
owner. 

The  delivery  wagon  outside  was  drawn  by  an  elderly 
horse  devoid  of  ambition  or  ideals.  His  head  was  sunk  in 
dejection.  He  was  gray  at  the  temples,  and  slouched  in 
the  shafts  in  a  loafing  attitude,  one  forefoot  negligently 
crossed  in  front  of  the  other.  He  aroused  himself  reluc- 
tantly and  with  apparent  difficulty  when  Merton  Gill 
seized  the  reins  and  called  in  commanding  tones,  "Get  on 
there,  you  old  skate!"  The  equipage  moved  off  under  the 


DIRTY  WORK  AT  THE  BORDER  9 

gaze  of  Amos,  who  was  locking  the  doors  of  his  establish- 
ment. 

Turning  the  first  corner  into  a  dusty  side  street,  Merton 
dropped  the  reins  and  lighted  the  filched  cigar.  Other 
Gashwiler  property  was  sacred  to  him.  From  all  the 
emporium's  choice  stock  he  would  have  abstracted  not  so 
much  as  a  pin;  but  the  Gashwiler  cigars,  said  to  be  "The 
World's  Best  lOc  Smoke,"  with  the  picture  of  a  dissipated 
clubman  in  evening  dress  on  the  box  cover,  were  different, 
in  that  they  were  pointedly  hidden  from  Merton.  He 
cared  little  for  cigars,  but  this  was  a  challenge;  the  old 
boy  couldn't  get  away  with  anything  like  that.  If  he  didn't 
want  his  cigars  touched  let  him  leave  the  box  out  in  the 
open  like  a  man.  Merton  drew  upon  the  lighted  trophy, 
moistened  and  pasted  back  the  wrapper  that  had  broken 
when  the  end  was  bitten  off,  and  took  from  the  bottom  of 
the  delivery  wagon  the  remains  of  a  buggy  whip  that  had 
been  worn  to  half  its  length.  With  this  he  now  tickled  the 
bony  ridges  of  the  horse.  Blows  meant  nothing  to  Dexter, 
but  he  could  still  be  tickled  into  brief  spurts  of  activity. 
He  trotted  with  swaying  head,  sending  up  an  effective  dust 
screen  between  the  wagon  and  a  still  possibly  observing 
Gashwiler. 

His  deliveries  made,  Merton  again  tickled  the  horse  to 
a  frantic  pace  which  continued  until  they  neared  the  alley 
on  which  fronted  the  Gashwiler  barn;  there  the  speed  was 
moderated  to  a  mild  amble,  for  Gashwiler  believed  his 
horse  should  be  driven  with  tenderness,  and  his  equally 
watchful  wife  believed  it  would  run  away  if  given  the  chance. 

Merton  drove  into  the  barnyard,  unhitched  the  horse, 
watered  it  at  the  half  of  a  barrel  before  the  iron  pump,  and 
led  it  into  the  barn,  where  he  removed  the  harness.  The 
old  horse  sighed  noisily  and  shook  himself  with  relief  as 
the  bridle  was  removed  and  a  halter  slipped  over  his  vener- 
able brow. 

Ascertaining  that  the  barnyard  was  vacant,  Merton 
immediately  became  attentive  to  his  charge.  Throughout 


10  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

the  late  drive  his  attitude  had  been  one  of  mild  but  con- 
temptuous abuse.  More  than  once  he  had  uttered  the 
words  "old  skate"  in  tones  of  earnest  conviction,  and  with 
the  worn  end  of  the  whip  he  had  cruelly  tickled  the  still 
absurdly  sensitive  sides.  Had  beating  availed  he  would 
with  no  compunction  have  beaten  the  drooping  wreck. 
But  now,  all  at  once,  he  was  curiously  tender.  He  patted 
the  shoulder  softly,  put  both  arms  around  the  bony  neck, 
and  pressed  his  face  against  the  face  of  Dexter.  A  moment 
he  stood  thus,  then  spoke  in  a  tear-choked  voice : 

"Good-by,  old  pal — the  best,  the  truest  pal  a  man  ever 
had.  You  and  me  has  seen  some  tough  times,  old  pard; 
but  you've  allus  brought  me  through  without  a  scratch; 
allus  brought  me  through."  There  was  a  sob  in  the  speak- 
er's voice,  but  he  manfully  recovered  a  clear  tone  of  pathos. 
"And  now,  old  pal,  they're  a-takin'  ye  from  me — yes,  we 
got  to  part,  you  an'  me.  I'm  never  goin'  to  set  eyes  on  ye 
agin.  But  we  got  to  be  brave,  old  pal;  we  got  to  keep  a  stiff 
upper  lip — no  cry  in'  now;  no  bustin'  down." 

The  speaker  unclasped  his  arms  and  stood  with  head 
bowed,  his  face  working  curiously,  striving  to  hold  back 
the  sobs. 

For  Merton  Gill  was  once  more  Clifford  Annytage,  pop- 
ular idol  of  the  screen,  in  his  great  role  of  Buck  Benson 
bidding  the  accustomed  farewell  to  his  four-footed  pal 
that  had  brought  him  safely  through  countless  dangers. 
How  are  we  to  know  that  in  another  couple  of  hundred  feet 
of  the  reel  Buck  will  escape  the  officers  of  the  law  who  have 
him  for  that  hold-up  of  the  Wallahoola  stage — of  which  he 
was  innocent — leap  from  a  second-story  window  of  the 
sheriff's  office  onto  the  back  of  his  old  pal,  and  be  carried 
safely  over  the  border  where  the  hellhounds  can't  touch 
him  until  his  innocence  is  proved  by  Estelle  St.  Clair,  the 
New  York  society  girl,  whose  culture  demanded  a  gentle- 
man but  whose  heart  demanded  a  man.  How  are  we  to 
know  this?  We  only  know  that  Buck  Benson  always  has 
to  kiss  his  horse  good-by  at  this  spot  in  the  drama. 


DIRTY  WORK  AT  THE  BORDER  11 

Merton  Gill  is  impressively  Buck  Benson.  His  sobs  are 
choking  him.  And  though  Gashwiler's  delivery  horse  is  not 
a  pinto,  and  could  hardly  get  over  the  border  ahead  of  a 
sheriff's  posse,  the  scene  is  affecting. 

"Good-by,  again,  old  pal,  and  God  bless  ye!"  sobs 
Merton. 


CHAPTER  H 

THAT  NIGHT — THE  APARTMENTS  OF  CLIFFORD  ARMYTAGE 

MERTON  GILL  mealed  at  the  Gashwiler  home.  He 
ate  his  supper  in  moody  silence,  holding  himself 
above  the  small  gossip  of  the  day  that  engaged 
Amos  and  his  wife.  What  to  him  meant  the  announcement 
that  Amos  expected  a  new  line  of  white  goods  on  the  mor- 
row, or  Mrs.  Gashwiler's  version  of  a  regrettable  incident  oc- 
curring at  that  afternoon's  meeting  of  the  Entre  Nous  Five 
Hundred  Club,  in  which  the  score  had  been  juggled  ad- 
versely to  Mrs.  Gashwiler,  resulting  in  the  loss  of  the  first 
prize,  a  handsome  fern  dish,  and  concerning  which  Mrs. 
Gashwiler  had  thought  it  best  to  speak  her  mind?  What 
importance  could  he  attach  to  the  disclosure  of  Metta 
Judson,  the  Gashwiler  hired  girl,  who  chatted  freely  during 
her  appearances  with  food,  that  Doc  Cummins  had  said 
old  Grandma  Foutz  couldn't  last  out  another  day;  that 
the  Peter  Swansons  were  sending  clear  to  Chicago  for  Tilda's 
trousseau;  and  that  Jeff  Murdock  had  arrested  one  of  the 
Giddings  boys,  but  she  couldn't  learn  if  it  was  Ferd  or  Gus, 
for  being  drunk  as  a  fool  and  busting  up  a  bazaar  out  at  the 
Oak  Grove  schoolhouse,  and  the  fighting  was  something 
terrible. 

Scarcely  did  he  listen  to  these  petty  recitals.  He  ate 
in  silence,  and  when  he  had  finished  the  simple  meal  he 
begged  to  be  excused.  He  begged  this  in  a  lofty,  detached, 
somewhat  weary  manner,  as  a  man  of  the  world,  exces- 
sively bored  at  the  dull  chatter  but  still  the  fastidious 
gentleman,  might  have  begged  it,  breaking  into  one  of  the 
many  repetitions  by  his  hostess  of  just  what  she  had  said 

12 


THE  APARTMENTS  OF  CLIFFORD  ARMYTAGE  13 

to  Mrs.  Judge  Ellis.  He  was  again  Clifford  Armytage, 
enacting  a  polished  society  man  among  yokels.  He  was  so 
impressive,  after  rising,  in  his  bow  to  Mrs.  Gashwiler  that 
Amos  regarded  him  with  a  kindling  suspicion. 

"Say!"  he  called,  as  Merton  in  the  hallway  plucked  his 
rakish  plush  hat  from  the  mirrored  rack.  "You  remember, 
now,  no  more  o'  that  skylarkin'  with  them  dummies!  Them 
things  cost  money." 

Merton  paused.  He  wished  to  laugh  sarcastically,  a 
laugh  of  withering  scorn.  He  wished  to  reply  in  polished 
tones,  "Skylarkin'!  You  poor,  dull  clod,  what  do  you 
know  of  my  ambitions,  my  ideals?  You,  with  your  petty 
life  devoted  to  gaining  a  few  paltry  dollars!"  But  he  did 
not  say  this,  or  even  register  the  emotion  that  would  justly 
accompany  such  a  subtitle.  He  merely  rejoined,  "All 
right,  sir,  I'm  not  going  to  touch  them,"  and  went  quickly 
out.  "Darned  old  grouch!"  he  muttered  as  he  went  down 
the  concrete  walk  to  the  Gashwiler  front  gate. 

Here  he  turned  to  regard  the  two-story  brick  house 
and  the  square  of  lawn  with  a  concrete  deer  on  one  side  of 
the  walk,  balanced  by  a  concrete  deer  on  the  other.  Before 
the  gate  was  the  cast-iron  effigy  of  a  small  Negro  in  fan- 
tastic uniform,  holding  an  iron  ring  aloft.  The  Gashwiler 
carriage  horse  had  been  tethered  to  this  in  the  days  before 
the  Gashwiler  touring  car  had  been  acquired. 

"Dwelling  of  a  country  storekeeper!"  muttered  Merton. 
"That's  all  you  are!" 

This  was  intended  to  be  scornful.  Merton  meant  that 
on  the  screen  it  would  be  recognized  as  this  and  nothing 
more.  It  could  not  be  taken  for  the  mansion  of  a  rich 
banker,  or  the  country  home  of  a  Wall  Street  magnate.  He 
felt  that  he  had  been  keen  in  his  dispraise,  especially  as  old 
Gashwiler  would  never  get  the  sting  of  it.  Clod! 

Three  blocks  brought  him  to  the  heart  of  the  town,  still 
throbbing  faintly.  He  stood,  irresolute,  before  the  Gid- 
dings  House.  Chairs  in  front  of  this  hostelry  were  now 
vacant  of  loafers,  and  a  clatter  of  dishes  came  through  the 


14  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

open  windows  of  the  dining  room,  where  supper  was  on. 
Farther  down  the  street  Selby  Brothers,  Cigars  and  Con- 
fectionery, would  be  open;  lights  shone  from  the  windows 
of  the  Fashion  Pool  Parlour  across  the  way;  the  City  Drug 
Store  could  still  be  entered;  and  the  post  office  would  stay 
open  until  after  the  mail  from  No.  4  was  distributed.  With 
these  exceptions  the  shops  along  this  mart  of  trade  were 
tightly  closed,  including  the  Gashwiler  Emporium,  at  the  blind 
front  of  which  Merton  now  glanced  with  the  utmost  distaste. 

Such  citizens  as  were  yet  abroad  would  be  over  at  the 
depot  to  watch  No.  4  go  through.  Merton  debated  joining 
these  sight-seers.  Simsbury  was  too  small  to  be  noticed  by 
many  trains.  It  sprawled  along  the  track  as  if  it  had  been 
an  afterthought  of  the  railroad.  Trains  like  No.  4  were 
apt  to  dash  relentlessly  by  it  without  slackening  speed,  the 
mail  bag  being  flung  to  the  depot  platform.  But  sometimes 
there  would  be  a  passenger  for  Simsbury,  and  the  proud 
train  would  slow  down  and  halt  reluctantly,  with  a  grind- 
ing of  brakes,  while  the  passenger  alighted.  Then  a  good 
view  of  the  train  could  be  had;  a  line  of  beautiful  sleepers 
terminating  in  an  observation  car,  its  rear  platform  guarded 
by  a  brass-topped  railing  behind  which  the  privileged 
lolled  at  ease;  and  up  ahead  a  wonderful  dining  car,  where 
dinner  was  being  served;  flitting  white-clad  waiters,  the 
glitter  of  silver  and  crystal  and  damask,  and  favoured 
beings  feasting  at  their  lordly  ease,  perhaps  denying  even 
a  careless  glance  at  the  pitiful  hamlet  outside,  or  at  most 
looking  out  impatient  at  the  halt,  or  merely  staring  with  in- 
curious eyes  while  awaiting  their  choice  foods. 

Not  one  of  these  enviable  persons  ever  betrayed  any 
interest  in  Simsbury  or  its  little  group  of  citizens  who  daily 
gathered  on  the  platform  to  do  them  honour.  Merton  Gill 
used  to  fancy  that  these  people  might  shrewdly  detect  him 
to  be  out  of  place  there — might  perhaps  take  him  to  be  an 
alien  city  man  awaiting  a  similar  proud  train  going  the 
other  way,  standing,  as  he  would,  aloof  from  the  obvious 
villagers,  and  having  a  manner,  a  carriage,  an  attire,  such 


THE  APARTMENTS  OF  CLIFFORD  ARMYTAGE  15 

as  further  set  him  apart.  Still,  he  could  never  be  sure  about 
this.  Perhaps  no  one  ever  did  single  him  out  as  a  being 
patently  of  the  greater  world.  Perhaps  they  considered 
that  he  was  rightly  of  Simsbury  and  would  continue  to  be 
a  part  of  it  all  the  days  of  his  life ;  or  perhaps  they  wouldn't 
notice  him  at  all.  They  had  been  passing  Simsburys  all 
day,  and  all  Simsburys  and  all  their  peoples  must  look 
very  much  alike  to  them.  Very  well — a  day  would  come. 
There  would  be  at  Simsbury  a  momentous  stop  of  No.  4 
and  another  passenger  would  be  in  that  d'ning  car,  dis- 
joined forever  from  Simsbury,  and  he  with  them  would 
stare  out  the  polished  windows  at  the  gaping  throng,  and 
he  would  continue  to  stare  with  incurious  eyes  at  still  other 
Simsburys  along  the  right  of  way,  while  the  proud  train 
bore  him  off  to  triumphs  never  dreamed  of  by  natural-born 
villagers. 

He  decided  now  not  to  tantalize  himself  with  a  glance 
at  this  splendid  means  of  escape  from  all  that  was  sordid. 
He  was  still  not  a  little  depressed  by  the  late  unpleasant- 
ness with  Gashwiler,  who  had  thought  him  a  crazy  fool, 
with  his  revolver,  his  fiercely  muttered  words,  and  his  hold- 
ing aloft  of  a  valuable  dummy  as  if  to  threaten  it  with 
destruction.  Well,  some  day  the  old  grouch  would  eat  his 
words;  some  day  he  would  be  relating  to  amazed  listeners 
that  he  had  known  Merton  Gill  intimately  at  the  very 
beginning  of  his  astounding  career.  That  was  bound  to 
come.  But  to-night  Merton  had  no  heart  for  the  swift 
spectacle  of  No.  4.  Nor  even,  should  it  halt,  did  he  feel 
up  to  watching  those  indifferent,  incurious  passengers  who 
little  recked  that  a  future  screen  idol  in  natty  plush  hat 
and  belted  coat  amusedly  surveyed  them.  To-night  he 
must  be  alone — but  a  day  would  come.  Resistless  Time 
would  strike  his  hour! 

Still  he  must  wait  for  the  mail  before  beginning  his  nightly 
study.  Certain  of  his  magazines  would  come  to-night. 
He  sauntered  down  the  deserted  street,  pausing  before  the 
establishment  of  Selby  Brothers.  From  the  door  of  this 


16  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

emerged  one  Elmer  Huff,  clerk  at  the  City  Drug  Store. 
Elmer  had  purchased  a  package  of  cigarettes  and  now 
offered  one  to  Merton. 

"  'Lo,  Mert!    Have  a  little  pill?" 

"No,  thanks,"  replied  Merton  firmly. 

He  had  lately  given  up  smoking — save  those  clandestine 
indulgences  at  the  expense  of  Gashwiler — because  he  was 
saving  money  against  his  great  day. 

Elmer  lighted  one  of  his  own  little  pills  and  made  a  further 
suggestion. 

"Say,  how  about  settin'  in  a  little  game  with  the  gang 
to-night  after  the  store  closes — ten-cent  limit?" 

"No,  thanks,"  replied  Merton,  again  firmly. 

He  had  no  great  liking  for  poker  at  any  limit,  and  he  would 
not  subject  his  savings  to  a  senseless  hazard.  Of  course  he 
might  win,  but  you  never  could  tell. 

"Do  you  good,"  urged  Elmer.  "Quit  at  twelve  sharp, 
with  one  round  of  roodles." 

"No,  I  guess  not,"  said  Merton. 

"We  had  some  game  last  night,  I'll  tell  the  world!  One 
hand  we  had  four  jacks  out  against  four  aces,  and  right  after 
that  I  held  four  kings  against  an  ace  full.  Say,  one  time 
there  I  was  about  two-eighty  to  the  good,  but  I  didn't  have 
enough  sense  to  quit.  Hear  about  Gus  Giddings?  They 
got  him  over  in  the  coop  for  breaking  in  on  a  social  out  at 
the  Oak  Grove  schoolhouse  last  night.  Say,  he  had  a  peach 
on  when  he  left  here,  I'll  tell  the  world!  But  he  didn't 
get  far.  Them  Grove  lads  certainly  made  a  believer  out  of 
him.  You  ought  to  see  that  left  eye  of  his!" 

Merton  listened  loftily  to  this  village  talk,  gossip  of  a  rural 

sport  who  got  a  peach  on  and  started  something And 

the  poker  game  in  the  back  room  of  the  City  Drug  Store! 
What  diversions  were  these  for  one  who  had  a  future?  Let 
these  clods  live  out  their  dull  lives  in  their  own  way.  But 
not  Merton  Gill,  who  held  aloof  from  their  low  sports,  studied 
faithfully  the  lessons  in  his  film-acting  course,  and  patiently 
bided  his  time. 


THE  APARTMENTS  OF  CLIFFORD  ARMYTAGE  17 

He  presently  sauntered  to  the  post  office,  where  the  mail 
was  being  distributed.  Here  he  found  the  sight-seers  who 
had  returned  from  the  treat  of  No.  4's  flight,  and  many  of 
the  less  enterprising  citizens  who  had  merely  come  down 
for  their  mail.  Gashwiler  was  among  these,  smoking  one 
of  his  choice  cigars.  He  was  not  allowed  to  smoke  in  the 
house.  Merton,  knowing  this  prohibition,  strictly  enforced 
by  Mrs.  Gashwiler,  threw  his  employer  a  glance  of  honest 
pity.  Briefly  he  permitted  himself  a  vision  of  his  own  future 
home — a  palatial  bungalow  in  distant  Hollywood,  with  ex- 
pensive cigars  in  elaborate  humidors  and  costly  gold-tipped 
cigarettes  in  silver  things  on  low  tables.  One  might  smoke 
freely  there  in  every  room. 

Under  more  of  the  Elmer  Huff  sort  of  gossip,  and  the 
rhythmic  clump  of  the  cancelling  stamp  back  of  the  drawers 
and  boxes,  he  allowed  himself  a  further  glimpse  of  this 
luxurious  interior.  He  sat  on  a  low  couch,  among  soft 
cushions,  a  magnificent  bearskin  rug  beneath  his  feet. 
He  smoked  one  of  the  costly  cigarettes  and  chatted  with  a 
young  lady  interviewer  from  Photo  Land. 

"You  ask  of  my  wife,"  he  was  saying.  "But  she  is  more 
than  a  wife — she  is  my  best  pal,  and,  I  may  add,  she  is  also 
my  severest  critic." 

He  broke  off  here,  for  an  obsequious  Japanese  butler 
entered  with  a  tray  of  cooling  drinks.  The  tray  would  be 
gleaming  silver,  but  he  was  uncertain  about  the  drinks; 
something  with  long  straws  in  them,  probably.  But  as  to 

anything  alcoholic,  now While  he  was  trying  to  determine 

this  the  general-delivery  window  was  opened  and  the  inter- 
view had  to  wait.  But,  anyway,  you  could  smoke  where  you 
wished  in  that  house,  and  Gashwiler  couldn't  smoke  any 
closer  to  his  house  than  the  front  porch.  Even  trying  it  there 
he  would  be  nagged,  and  fussily  asked  why  he  didn't  go  out 
to  the  barn.  He  was  a  poor  fish,  Gashwiler;  a  country  store- 
keeper without  a  future.  A  clod! 

Merton,  after  waiting  in  line,  obtained  his  mail,  consisting 
of  three  magazines — Photo  Land,  Silver  Screenings,  and 


18  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

Camera.  As  he  stepped  away  he  saw  that  Miss  Tessie 
Kearns  stood  three  places  back  in  the  line.  He  waited  at 
the  door  for  her.  Miss  Kearns  was  the  one  soul  in  Simsbury 
who  understood  him.  He  had  confided  to  her  all  his  vast 
ambitions;  she  had  sympathized  with  them,  and  her  never- 
failing  encouragement  had  done  not  a  little  to  stiffen  his 
resolution  at  odd  times  when  the  haven  of  Hollywood  seemed 
all  too  distant.  A  certain  community  of  ambitions  had  been 
the  foundation  of  this  sympathy  between  the  two,  for  Tessie 
Kearns  meant  to  become  a  scenario  writer  of  eminence,  and, 
like  Merton,  she  was  now  both  studying  and  practising  a 
difficult  art.  She  conducted  the  millinery  and  dressmaking 
establishment  next  to  the  Gashwiler  Emporium,  but  found 
time,  as  did  Merton,  for  the  worthwhile  things  outside  her 
narrow  life. 

She  was  a  slight,  spare  little  figure,  sedate  and  mouselike, 
of  middle  age  and,  to  the  village,  of  a  quiet,  sober  way  of 
thought.  But,  known  only  to  Merton,  her  real  life  was  one 
of  terrific  adventure,  involving  crime  of  the  most  atrocious 
sort,  and  contact  not  only  with  the  great  and  good,  but 
with  loathsome  denizens  of  the  underworld  who  would 
commit  any  deed  for  hire.  Some  of  her  scenarios  would  have 
profoundly  shocked  the  good  people  of  Simsbury,  and 
she  often  suffered  tremors  of  apprehension  at  the  thought 
that  one  of  them  might  be  enacted  at  the  Bijou  Palace  right 
there  on  Fourth  Street,  with  her  name  brazenly  announced 
as  author.  Suppose  it  were  Passion's  Perils!  She  would 
surely  have  to  leave  town  after  that!  She  would  be  too 
ashamed  to  stay.  Still  she  would  be  proud,  also,  for  by  that 
time  they  would  be  calling  her  to  Hollywood  itself.  Of  course 
nothing  so  distressing — or  so  grand — had  happened  yet,  for 
none  of  her  dramas  had  been  accepted;  but  she  was  coming 
on.  It  might  happen  any  time. 

She  joined  Merton,  a  long  envelope  in  her  hand  and  a 
brave  little  smile  on  her  pinched  face. 

"Which  one  is  it?"  he  asked,  referring  to  the  envelope. 

"It's  Passion's  Perils,"  she  answered  with  a  jaunty  affec- 


THE  APARTMENTS  OF  CLIFFORD  ARMYTAGE  19 

tation  of  amusement.  "The  Touchstone-Blatz  people  sent 
it  back.  The  slip  says  its  being  returned  does  not  imply 
any  lack  of  merit." 

"I  should  think  it  wouldn't!"  said  Merton  warmly. 

He  knew  Passion's  Perils.  A  company  might  have  no  im- 
mediate need  for  it,  but  its  rejection  could  not  possibly  imply 
a  lack  of  merit,  because  the  merit  was  there.  No  one  could 
dispute  that. 

They  walked  on  to  the  Bijou  Palace.  Its  front  was  dark, 
for  only  twice  a  week,  on  Tuesdays  and  Saturdays,  could 
Simsbury  muster  a  picture  audience;  but  they  could  read 
the  bills  for  the  following  night.  The  entrance  was  flanked 
on  either  side  by  billboards,  and  they  stopped  before  the 
first.  Merton  Gill's  heart  quickened  its  beats,  for  there  was 
billed  none  other  than  Beulah  Baxter  in  the  ninth  installment 
of  her  tremendous  serial,  The  Hazards  of  Hortense. 

It  was  going  to  be  good !  It  almost  seemed  that  this  time 
the  scoundrels  would  surely  get  Hortense.  She  was  speeding 
across  a  vast  open  quarry  in  a  bucket  attached  to  a  cable, 
and  one  of  the  scoundrels  with  an  ax  was  viciously  hacking 
at  the  cable's  farther  anchorage.  It  would  be  a  miracle  if 
he  did  not  succeed  in  his  hellish  design  to  dash  Hortense  to 
the  cruel  rocks  below.  Merton,  of  course,  had  not  a  moment's 
doubt  that  the  miracle  would  intervene;  he  had  seen  other 
serials.  So  he  made  no  comment  upon  the  gravity  of  the 
situation,  but  went  at  once  to  the  heart  of  his  ecstasy. 

"The  most  beautiful  woman  on  the  screen,"  he  murmured. 

"Well,  I  don't  know." 

Miss  Kearns  appeared  about  to  advance  the  claims  of  rival 
beauties,  but  desisted  when  she  saw  that  Merton  was  firm. 

"None  of  the  rest  can  touch  her,"  he  maintained.  "And 
look  at  her  nerve !  Would  your  others  have  as  much  nerve  as 
that?" 

"Maybe  she  has  someone  to  double  in  those  places,"  sug- 
gested the  screen-wise  Tessie  Kearns. 

"Not  Beulah  Baxter.  Didn't  1  see  her  personal  appear- 
ance that  time  I  went  to  Peoria  last  spring  on  purpose  to  see 


20  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

it?  Didn't  she  talk  about  the  risks  she  took  and  how  the 
directors  were  always  begging  her  to  use  a  double  and  how  her 
artistic  convictions  wouldn't  let  her  do  any  such  thing?  You 
can  bet  the  little  girl  is  right  there  in  every  scene!" 

They  passed  to  the  other  billboard.  This  would  be  the 
comedy.  A  painfully  cross-eyed  man  in  misfitting  clothes 
was  doing  something  supposed  to  be  funny — pushing  a  lawn 
mower  over  the  carpet  of  a  palatial  home. 

"How  disgusting!"  exclaimed  Miss  Kearns. 

"Ain't  it?"  said  Merton.  "How  they  can  have  one  of 
those  terrible  things  on  the  same  bill  with  Miss  Baxter — I 
can't  understand  it." 

"Those  censors  ought  to  suppress  this  sort  of  buffoonery 
instead  of  scenes  of  dignified  passion  like  they  did  in  Scarlet 
Sin,"  declared  Tessie.  "Did  you  read  about  that?" 

"They  sure  ought,"  agreed  Merton.  "These  comedies 
make  me  tired.  I  never  see  one  if  1  can  help  it." 

Walking  on,  they  discussed  the  wretched  public  taste  and 
the  wretched  actors  that  pandered  to  it.  The  slap-stick 
comedy,  they  held,  degraded  a  fine  and  beautiful  art.  Mer- 
ton was  especially  severe.  He  always  felt  uncomfortable 
at  one  of  these  regrettable  exhibitions  when  people  about 
him  who  knew  no  better  laughed  heartily.  He  had  never 
seen  anything  to  laugh  at,  and  said  as  much. 

They  crossed  the  street  and  paused  at  the  door  of  Miss 
Kearns'  shop,  behind  which  were  her  living  rooms.  She 
would  to-night  go  over  Passion's  Perils  once  more  and  send 
it  to  another  company. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said  to  Merton,  "if  they  keep  sending  it 
back  because  the  sets  are  too  expensive.  Of  course  there's 
the  one  where  the  dissipated  English  nobleman,  Count  Bles- 
singham,  lures  Valerie  into  Westminster  Abbey  for  his  own 
evil  purposes  on  the  night  of  the  old  earl's  murder — that's 
expensive — but  they  get  a  chance  to  use  it  again  when  Valerie 
is  led  to  the  altar  by  young  Lord  Stonecliff,  the  rightful  heir. 
And  of  course  Stonecliff  Manor,  where  Valerie  is  first  seen 
as  governess,  would  be  expensive;  but  they  use  that  in  a  lot 


THE  APARTMENTS  OF  CLIFFORD  ARMYTAGE  21 

of  scenes,  too.  Still,  maybe  I  might  change  the  locations 
around  to  something  they've  got  built." 

"I  wouldn't  change  a  line,"  said  Merton.  "Don't  give 
in  to  'em.  Make  'em  take  it  as  it  is.  They  might  ruin  your 
picture  with  cheap  stuff." 

"Well,"  the  authoress  debated,  "maybe  I'll  leave  it.  I'd 
especially  hate  to  give  up  Westminster  Abbey.  Of  course 
the  scene  where  she  is  struggling  with  Count  Blessingham 
might  easily  be  made  offensive — it's  a  strong  scene — but  it 
all  comes  right.  You  remember  she  wrenches  herself  loose 
from  his  grasp  and  rushes  to  throw  herself  before  the  altar, 
which  suddenly  lights  up,  and  the  scoundrel  is  afraid  to 
pursue  her  there,  because  he  had  a  thorough  religious  training 
when  a  boy  at  Oxford,  and  he  feels  it  would  be  sacrilegious 
to  seize  her  again  while  the  light  from  the  altar  shines  upon 
her  that  way,  and  so  she's  saved  for  the  time  being.  It  seems 
kind  of  a  shame  not  to  use  Westminster  Abbey  for  a  really  big 
scene  like  that,  don't  you  think?" 

"I  should  say  so!"  agreed  Merton  warmly.  "They  build 
plenty  of  sets  as  big  as  that.  Keep  it  in!" 

"Well,  I'll  take  your  advice.  And  I  shan't  give  up  trying 
with  my  other  ones.  And  I'm  writing  to  another  set  of 
people — see  here."  She  took  from  her  handbag  a  clipped 
advertisement  which  she  read  to  Merton  in  the  fading  light, 
holding  it  close  to  her  keen  little  eyes.  "Listen!  'Five 
thousand  photoplay  ideas  needed.  Working  girl  paid  ten 
thousand  dollars  for  ideas  she  had  thought  worthless.  Yours 
may  be  worth  more.  Experience  unnecessary.  Information 
free.  Producers'  League  562,  Piqua,  Ohio.'  Doesn't  that 
sound  encouraging?  And  it  isn't  as  if  I  didn't  have  some 
experience.  I've  been  writing  scenarios  for  two  years  now." 

"We  both  got  to  be  patient,"  he  pointed  out.  "We  can't 
succeed  all  at  once,  just  remember  that." 

"Oh,  I'm  patient,  and  I'm  determined;  and  I  know  you 
are,  too,  Merton.  But  the  way  my  things  keep  coming  back 
— well,  I  guess  we'd  both  get  discouraged  if  it  wasn't  for  our 
sense  of  humour." 


22  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"  I  bet  we  would,"  agreed  Merton.     "  And  good-night ! " 

He  went  on  to  the  Gashwiler  Emporium  and  let  himself 
into  the  dark  store.  At  the  moment  he  was  bewailing  that 
the  next  installment  of  The  Hazards  of  Hortense  would  be 
shown  on  a  Saturday  night,  for  on  those  nights  the  store 
kept  open  until  nine  and  he  could  see  it  but  once.  On  a 
Tuesday  night  he  would  have  watched  it  twice,  in  spite  of  the 
so-called  comedy  unjustly  sharing  the  bill  with  it. 

Lighting  a  match,  he  made  his  way  through  the  silent 
store,  through  the  stock  room  that  had  so  lately  been  the  foul 
lair  of  Snake  le  Vasquez,  and  into  his  own  personal  domain,  a 
square  partitioned  off  from  the  stockroom  in  which  were  his 
cot,  the  table  at  which  he  studied  the  art  of  screen  acting,  and 
his  other  little  belongings.  He  often  called  this  his  den.  He 
lighted  a  lamp  on  the  table  and  drew  the  chair  up  to  it. 

On  the  boards  of  the  partition  in  front  of  him  were  pasted 
many  presentments  of  his  favourite  screen  actress,  Beulah 
Baxter,  as  she  underwent  the  nerve-racking  Hazards  of  Hor- 
tense. The  intrepid  girl  was  seen  leaping  from  the  seat  of 
her  high-powered  car  to  the  cab  of  a  passing  locomotive,  her 
chagrined  pursuers  in  the  distant  background.  She  sprang 
from  a  high  cliff  into  the  chill  waters  of  a  storm-tossed  sea. 
Bound  to  the  back  of  a  spirited  horse,  she  was  raced  down 
the  steep  slope  of  a  rocky  ravine  in  the  Far  West.  Alone  in 
a  foul  den  of  the  underworld  she  held  at  bay  a  dozen  villain- 
ous Asiatics.  Down  the  fire  escape  of  a  great  New  York 
hotel  she  made  a  perilous  way.  From  the  shrouds  of  a  tossing 
ship  she  was  about  to  plunge  to  a  watery  release  from  the 
persecutor  who  was  almost  upon  her.  Upon  the  roof  of  the 
Fifth  Avenue  mansion  of  her  scoundrelly  guardian  in  the 
great  city  of  New  York  she  was  gaining  the  friendly  projec- 
tion of  a  cornice  from  which  she  could  leap  and  again  escape 
death — even  a  fate  worse  than  death,  for  the  girl  was  pursued 
from  all  sorts  of  base  motives.  This  time,  friendless  and 
alone  in  profligate  New  York,  she  would  leap  from  the  cornice 
to  the  branches  of  the  great  eucalyptus  tree  that  grew  hard  by. 
Unnerving  performances  like  these  were  a  constant  inspira- 


THE  APARTMENTS  OF  CLIFFORD  ARMYTAGE  23 

tion  to  Merton  Gill.  He  knew  that  he  was  not  yet  fit  to  act 
in  such  scenes — to  appear  opportunely  in  the  last  reel  of  each 
installment  and  save  Hortense  for  the  next  one.  But  he  was 
confident  a  day  would  come. 

On  the  same  wall  he  faced  also  a  series  of  photographs  of 
himself.  These  were  stills  to  be  one  day  shown  to  a  director 
who  would  thereupon  perceive  his  screen  merits.  There  was 
Merton  in  the  natty  belted  coat,  with  his  hair  slicked  back  in 
the  approved  mode  and  a  smile  upon  his  face;  a  happy,  care- 
less college  youth.  There  was  Merton  in  tennis  flannels,  his 
hair  nicely  disarranged,  jauntily  holding  a  borrowed  racquet. 
Here  he  was  in  a  trench  coat  and  the  cap  of  a  lieutenant,  grim 
of  face,  the  jaw  set,  holding  a  revolver  upon  someone  un- 
pictured;  there  in  a  wide-collared  sport  shirt  lolling  negligently 
upon  a  bench  after  a  hard  game  of  polo  or  something. 
Again  he  appeared  in  evening  dress,  two  straightened  fingers 
resting  against  his  left  temple.  Underneath  this  was  written 
in  a  running,  angular,  distinguished  hand,  "Very  truly  yours, 
Clifford  Armytage."  This,  and  prints  of  it  similarly  inscribed, 
would  one  day  go  to  unknown  admirers  who  besought  him 
for  likenesses  of  himself. 

But  Merton  lost  no  time  in  scanning  these  pictorial  tri- 
umphs. He  was  turning  the  pages  of  the  magazines  he  had 
brought,  his  first  hasty  search  being  for  new  photographs  of 
his  heroine.  He  was  quickly  rewarded.  Silver  Screenings 
proffered  some  fresh  views  of  Beulah  Baxter,  not  in  danger- 
ous moments,  but  revealing  certain  quieter  aspects  of  her 
wondrous  life.  In  her  kitchen,  apron  clad,  she  stirred  some- 
thing. In  her  lofty  music  room  she  was  seated  at  her  piano. 
In  her  charming  library  she  was  shown  "Among  Her  Books." 
More  charmingly  she  was  portrayed  with  her  beautiful  arms 
about  the  shoulders  of  her  dear  old  mother.  And  these  ac- 
companied an  interview  with  the  actress. 

The  writer,  one  Esther  Schwarz,  professed  the  liveliest 
trepidation  at  first  meeting  the  screen  idol,  but  was  swiftly 
reassured  by  the  unaffected  cordiality  of  her  reception.  She 
found  that  success  had  not  spoiled  Miss  Baxter.  A  sincere 


24  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

artist,  she  yet  absolutely  lacked  the  usual  temperament  and 
mannerisms.  She  seemed  more  determined  than  ever  to 
give  the  public  something  better  and  finer.  Her  splendid 
dignity,  reserve,  humanness,  high  ideals,  and  patient  study  of 
her  art  had  but  mellowed,  not  hardened,  a  gracious  person- 
ality. Merton  Gill  received  these  assurances  without  sur- 
prise. He  knew  Beulah  Baxter  would  prove  to  be  these 
delightful  things.  He  read  on  for  the  more  exciting  bits. 

"I'm  so  interested  in  my  work,"  prettily  observed  Miss 
Baxter  to  the  interviewer;  " suppose  we  talk  only  of  that. 
Leave  out  all  the  rest — my  Beverly  Hills  home,  my  cars,  my 
jewels,  my  Paris  gowns,  my  dogs,  my  servants,  my  recreations. 
It  is  work  alone  that  counts,  don't  you  think?  We  must 
learn  that  success,  all  that  is  beautiful  and  fine,  requires 
work,  infinite  work  and  struggle.  The  beautiful  comes  only 
through  suffering  and  sacrifice.  And  of  course  dramatic 
work  broadens  a  girl's  viewpoint,  helps  her  to  get  the  real, 
the  worthwhile  things  out  of  life,  enriching  her  nature  with 
the  emotional  experience  of  her  roles.  It  is  through  such 
pressure  that  we  grow,  and  we  must  grow,  must  we  not? 
One  must  strive  for  the  ideal,  for  the  art  which  will  be  but 
the  pictorial  expression  of  that,  and  for  the  emotion  which 
must  be  touched  by  the  illuminating  vision  of  a  well-developed 
imagination  if  the  vital  message  of  the  film  is  to  be  felt. 

"But  of  course  I  have  my  leisure  moments  from  the  grind- 
ing stress.  Then  I  turn  to  my  books — I'm  wild  about  his- 
tory. And  how  I  love  the  great  free  out-of-dcors !  I  should 
prefer  to  be  on  a  simple  farm,  were  I  a  boy.  The  public 
would  not  have  me  a  boy,  you  say" — she  shrugged  prettily — 
"oh,  of  course,  my  beauty,  as  they  are  pleased  to  call  it. 
After  all,  why  should  one  not  speak  of  that?  Beauty  is  just 
a  stock  in  trade,  you  know.  Why  not  acknowledge  it  frankly? 
But  do  come  to  my  delightful  kitchen,  where  I  spend  many 
a  spare  moment,  and  see  the  lovely  custard  I  have  made  for 
dear  mamma's  luncheon." 

Merton  Gill  was  entranced  by  this  exposition  of  the  quieter 
side  of  his  idol's  life.  Of  course  he  had  known  she  could  not 


THE  APARTMENTS  OF  CLIFFORD  ARMYTAGE  25 

always  be  making  narrow  escapes,  and  it  seemed  that  she 
was  almost  more  delightful  in  this  staid  domestic  life.  Here, 
away  from  her  professional  perils,  she  was,  it  seemed,  "a  slim 
little  girl  with  sad  eyes  and  a  wistful  mouth." 

The  picture  moved  him  strongly.  More  than  ever  he  was 
persuaded  that  his  day  would  come.  Even  might  come  the 
day  when  it  would  be  his  lot  to  lighten  the  sorrow  of  those 
eyes  and  appease  the  wistfulness  of  that  tender  mouth.  He 
was  less  sure  about  this.  He  had  been  unable  to  learn  if 
Beulah  Baxter  was  still  unwed.  Silver  Screenings,  in  reply 
to  his  question,  had  answered,  "Perhaps."  Camera,  in  its 
answers  to  correspondents,  had  said,  "Not  now."  Then  he 
had  written  to  Photo  Land:  " Is  Beulah  Baxter  unmarried? " 
The  answer  had  come,  "Twice."  He  had  been  able  to  make 
little  of  these  replies,  enigmatic,  ambiguous,  at  best.  But  he 
felt  that  some  day  he  would  at  least  be  chosen  to  act  with  this 
slim  little  girl  with  the  sad  eyes  and  wistful  mouth.  He,  it 
might  be,  would  rescue  her  from  the  branches  of  the  great 
eucalyptus  tree  growing  hard  by  the  Fifth  Avenue  mansion 
of  the  scoundrelly  guardian.  This,  if  he  remembered  well 
her  message  about  hard  work. 

He  recalled  now  the  wondrous  occasion  on  which  he  had 
travelled  the  nearly  hundred  miles  to  Peoria  to  see  his  idol  in 
the  flesh.  Her  personal  appearance  had  been  advertised. 
It  was  on  a  Saturday  night,  but  Merton  had  silenced  old  Gash- 
wiler  with  the  tale  of  a  dying  aunt  in  the  distant  city.  Even 
so,  the  old  grouch  had  been  none  too  considerate.  He  had 
seemed  to  believe  that  Merton's  aunt  should  have  died 
nearer  to  Simsbury,  or  at  least  have  chosen  a  dull  Monday. 

But  Merton  had  held  with  dignity  to  the  point;  a  dying 
aunt  wasn't  to  be  hustled  about  as  to  either  time  or  place. 
She  died  when  her  time  came — even  on  a  Saturday  night — 
and  where  she  happened  to  be,  though  it  were  a  hundred  miles 
from  some  point  more  convenient  to  an  utter  stranger.  He 
had  gone  and  thrillingly  had  beheld  for  five  minutes  his  idol 
in  the  flesh,  the  slim  little  girl  of  the  sorrowful  eyes  and 
wistful  mouth,  as  she  told  the  vast  audience — it  seemed  to 


26  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

Merton  that  she  spoke  solely  to  him — by  what  narrow 
chance  she  had  been  saved  from  disappointing  it.  She  had 
missed  the  train,  but  had  at  once  leaped  into  her  high-powered 
roadster  and  made  the  journey  at  an  average  of  sixty-five 
miles  an  hour,  braving  death  a  dozen  times.  For  her  public 
was  dear  to  her,  and  she  would  not  have  it  disappointed,  and 
there  she  was  before  them  in  her  trim  driving  suit,  still  breath- 
less from  the  wild  ride. 

Then  she  told  them — Merton  especially — how  her  directors 
had  again  and  again  besought  her  not  to  persist  in  risking  her 
life  in  her  dangerous  exploits,  but  to  allow  a  double  to  take 
her  place  at  the  more  critical  moments.  But  she  had  never 
been  able  to  bring  herself  to  this  deception,  for  deception,  in  a 
way,  it  would  be.  The  directors  had  entreated  in  vain.  She 
would  keep  faith  with  her  public,  though  full  well  she  knew 
that  at  any  time  one  of  her  dare-devil  acts  might  prove  fatal. 

Her  public  was  very  dear  to  her.  She  was  delighted  to 
meet  it  here,  face  to  face,  heart  to  heart.  She  clasped  her 
own  slender  hands  over  her  own  heart  as  she  said  this,  and 
there  was  a  pathetic  little  catch  in  her  voice  as  she  waved 
farewell  kisses  to  the  throng.  Many  a  heart  besides  Merton's 
beat  more  quickly  at  knowing  that  she  must  rush  out  to  the 
high-powered  roadster  and  be  off  at  eighty  miles  an  hour  to 
St.  Louis,  where  another  vast  audience  would  the  next  day 
be  breathlessly  awaiting  her  personal  appearance. 

Merton  had  felt  abundantly  repaid  for  his  journey.  There 
had  been  inspiration  in  this  contact.  Little  he  minded  the 
acid  greeting,  on  his  return,  of  a  mere  Gashwiler,  spawning 
in  his  low  mind  a  monstrous  suspicion  that  the  dying  aunt 
had  never  lived. 

Now  he  read  in  his  magazines  other  intimate  interviews  by 
other  talented  young  women  who  had  braved  the  presence  of 
other  screen  idols  of  both  sexes.  The  interviewers  approached 
them  with  trepidation,  and  invariably  found  that  success  had 
not  spoiled  them.  Fine  artists  though  they  were,  applauded 
and  richly  rewarded,  yet  they  remained  simple,  unaffected, 
and  cordial  to  these  daring  reporters.  They  spoke  with 


THE  APARTMENTS  OF  CLIFFORD  ARMYTAGE  27 

quiet  dignity  of  their  work,  their  earnest  efforts  to  give  the 
public  something  better  and  finer.  They  wished  the  count- 
less readers  of  the  interviews  to  comprehend  that  their  tri- 
umphs had  come  only  with  infinite  work  and  struggle,  that 
the  beautiful  comes  only  through  suffering  and  sacrifice. 

At  lighter  moments  they  spoke  gayly  of  their  palatial 
homes,  their  domestic  pets,  their  wives  or  husbands  and 
their  charming  children.  They  all  loved  the  great  out-of- 
doors,  but  their  chief  solace  from  toil  was  in  this  unruffled 
domesticity  where  they  could  forget  the  worries  of  an  exact- 
ing profession  and  lead  a  simple  home  life.  All  the  husbands 
and  wives  were  more  than  that — they  were  good  pals;  and  of 
course  they  read  and  studied  a  great  deal.  Many  of  them 
were  wild  about  books. 

He  was  especially  interested  in  the  interview  printed  by 
Camera  with  that  world  favourite,  Harold  Parmalee.  For 
this  was  the  screen  artist  whom  Merton  most  envied,  and 
whom  he  conceived  himself  most  to  resemble  in  feature. 
The  lady  interviewer,  Miss  Augusta  Blivens,  had  gone  trem- 
bling into  the  presence  of  Harold  Parmalee,  to  be  instantly 
put  at  her  ease  by  the  young  artist's  simple,  unaffected  man- 
ner. He  chatted  of  his  early  struggles  when  he  was  only  too 
glad  to  accept  the  few  paltry  hundreds  of  dollars  a  week  that 
were  offered  him  in  minor  parts;  of  his  quick  rise  to  eminence; 
of  his  unceasing  effort  to  give  the  public  something  better 
and  finer;  of  his  love  for  the  great  out-of-doors;  and  of  his 
daily  flight  to  the  little  nest  that  sheltered  his  pal  wife  and  the 
kiddies.  Here  he  could  be  truly  himself,  a  man's  man,  loving 
the  simple  things  of  We.  Here,  in  his  library,  surrounded 
by  his  books,  or  in  the  music  room  playing  over  some  little 
Chopin  prelude,  or  on  the  lawn  romping  with  the  giant  police 
dog,  he  could  forget  the  public  that  would  not  let  him  rest. 

Nor  had  he  been  spoiled  in  the  least,  said  the  interviewer, 
by  the  adulation  poured  out  upon  him  by  admiring  women 
and  girls  in  volume  sufficient  to  turn  the  head  of  a  less  sane 
young  man. 

"There  are  many  beautiful  women  in  the  world,"  pursued 


28  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

the  writer,  "and  I  dare  say  there  is  not  one  who  meets  Harold 
Parmalee  who  does  not  love  him  in  one  way  or  another.  He 
has  mental  brilliancy  for  the  intellectuals,  good  looks  for  the 
empty-headed,  a  strong  vital  appeal,  a  magnetism  almost 
overwhelming  to  the  susceptible,  and  an  easy  and  supremely 
appealing  courtesy  for  every  woman  he  encounters." 

Merton  drew  a  long  breath  after  reading  these  earnest 
words.  Would  an  interviewer  some  day  be  writing  as  much 
about  him?  He  studied  the  pictures  of  Harold  Parmalee 
that  abundantly  spotted  the  article.  The  full  face,  the  pro- 
file, the  symmetrical  shoulders,  the  jaunty  bearing,  the  easy, 
masterful  smile.  From  each  of  these  he  would  raise  his  eyes 
to  his  own  pictured  face  on  the  wall  above  him.  Undoubt- 
edly he  was  not  unlike  Harold  Parmalee.  He  noted  little 
similarities.  He  had  the  nose,  perhaps  a  bit  more  jutting 
than  Harold's,  and  the  chin,  even  more  prominent. 

Possibly  a  director  would  have  told  him  that  his  Harold 
Parmalee  beauty  was  just  a  trifle  overdone;  that  his  face 
went  just  a  bit  past  the  line  of  pleasing  resemblance  and 
into  something  else.  But  at  this  moment  the  aspirant  was 
reassured.  His  eyes  were  pale,  under  pale  brows,  yet  they 
showed  well  in  the  prints.  And  he  was  slightly  built,  perhaps 
even  thin,  but  a  diet  rich  in  fats  would  remedy  that.  And 
even  if  he  were  quite  a  little  less  comely  than  Parmalee,  he 
would  still  be  impressive.  After  all,  a  great  deal  depended 
upon  the  acting,  and  he  was  learning  to  act. 

Months  ago,  the  resolution  big  in  his  heart,  he  had  answered 
the  advertisement  in  Silver  Screenings,  urging  him  to  "Learn 
Movie  Acting,  a  fascinating  profession  that  pays  big.  Would 
you  like  to  know,"  it  demanded,  "if  you  are  adapted  to  this 
work?  If  so,  send  ten  cents  for  our  Ten-Hour  Talent-Pro ver, 
or  Key  to  Movie-Acting  Aptitude,  and  find  whether  you  are 
suited  to  take  it  up." 

Merton  had  earnestly  wished  to  know  this,  and  had  sent 
ten  cents  to  the  Film  Incorporation  Bureau,  Station  N, 
Stebbinsville,  Arkansas.  The  Talent-Prover,  or  Key  to 
Mo  vie- Acting  Aptitude,  had  come;  he  had  mailed  his  answers 


THE  APARTMENTS  OF  CLIFFORD  ARMYTAGE  29 

to  the  questions  and  waited  an  anguished  ten  days,  fearing 
that  he  would  prove  to  lack  the  required  aptitude  for  this 
great  art.  But  at  last  the  cheering  news  had  come.  He  had 
every  aptitude  in  full  measure,  and  all  that  remained  was  to 
subscribe  to  the  correspondence  course. 

He  had  felt  weak  in  the  moment  of  his  relief  from  this  tor- 
turing anxiety.  Suppose  they  had  told  him  that  he  wouldn't 
do?  And  he  had  studied  the  lessons  with  unswerving  deter- 
mination. Night  and  day  he  had  held  to  his  ideal.  He  knew 
that  when  you  did  this  your  hour  was  bound  to  come. 

He  yawned  now,  thinking,  instead  of  the  anger  expressions 
he  should  have  been  practising,  of  the  sordid  things  he  must 
do  to-morrow.  He  must  be  up  at  five,  sprinkle  the  floor, 
sweep  it,  take  down  the  dust  curtains  from  the  shelves  of  dry 
goods,  clean  and  fill  the  lamps,  then  station  outside  the  dum- 
mies in  their  raiment.  All  day  he  would  serve  customers, 
snatching  a  hasty  lunch  of  crackers  and  cheese  behind  the 
grocery  counter.  And  at  night,  instead  of  twice  watching 
The  Hazards  of  Hortense,  he  must  still  unreasonably  serve 
late  customers  until  the  second  unwinding  of  those  delectable 
reels. 

He  suddenly  sickened  of  it  all.  Was  he  not  sufficiently 
versed  in  the  art  he  had  chosen  to  practise?  And  old  Gash- 
wiler  every  day  getting  harder  to  bear !  His  resolve  stiffened. 
He  would  not  wait  much  longer — only  until  the  savings  hid- 
den out  under  the  grocery  counter  had  grown  a  bit.  He 
made  ready  for  bed,  taking,  after  he  had  undressed,  some 
dumb-bell  exercises  that  would  make  his  shoulders  a  trifle 
more  like  Harold  Parmalee's.  This  rite  concluded,  he  knelt 
by  his  narrow  cot  and  prayed  briefly. 

"Oh,  God,  make  me  a  good  movie  actor!  Make  me  one 
of  the  best!  For  Jesus'  sake,  amen!" 


CHAPTER  III 

WESTERN   STUFF 

SATURDAY  proved  all  that  his  black  forebodings  had 
pictured  it — a  day  of  sordid,  harassing  toil;  toil, 
moreover,  for  which  Gashwiler,  the  beneficiary, 
showed  but  the  scantest  appreciation.  Indeed,  the  day 
opened  with  a  disagreement  between  the  forward-looking 
clerk  and  his  hide-bound  reactionary.  Gashwiler  had 
reached  the  store  at  his  accustomed  hour  of  8 :30  to  find  Mer- 
ton  embellishing  the  bulletin  board  in  front  with  legends  set- 
ting forth  especial  bargains  of  the  day  to  be  had  within. 
Chalk  in  hand,  he  had  neatly  written,  "See  our  new  importa- 
tion of  taffetas,  $2.59  the  yard."  Below  this  he  was  in  the 
act  of  putting  down,  "Try  our  choice  Honey-dew  spinach, 
20  cts.  the  can."  "Try  our  Preferred  Chipped  Beef,  58  cts. 
the  pound." 

He  was  especially  liking  that  use  of  "the."  It  sounded 
modern.  Yet  along  came  Gashwiler,  as  if  seeking  an  early 
excuse  to  nag,  and  criticized  this. 

"Why  don't  you  say  *a  yard,'  'a  can,'  'a  pound'?"  he  de- 
manded harshly.  "What's  the  sense  of  that  there  'the' 
stuff?  Looks  to  me  like  just  putting  on  a  few  airs.  You 
keep  to  plain  language  and  our  patrons'll  like  it  a  lot  better." 

Viciously  Merton  Gill  rubbed  out  the  modern  "the"  and 
substituted  the  desired  "a." 

"Very  well,"  he  assented,  "if  you'd  rather  stick  to  the  old- 
fashioned  way;  but  I  can  tell  you  that's  the  way  city  stores 
do  it.  I  thought  you  might  want  to  be  up  to  date,  but  I  see 
I  made  a  great  mistake." 

"Humph!"  said  Gashwiler,  unbitten  by  this  irony.  "I 

so 


WESTERN  STUFF  31 

guess  the  old  way's  good  enough,  long's  our  prices  are  always 
right.  Don't  forget  to  put  on  that  canned  salmon.  I  had 
that  in  stock  for  nearly  a  year  now — and  say  it's  twenty  cents 
'a'  can,  not  'the'  can.  Also  say  it's  a  grand  reduction  from 
thirty-five  cents." 

That  was  always  the  way.  You  never  could  please  the 
old  grouch.  And  so  began  the  labour  that  lasted  until  nine 
that  night.  Merton  must  count  out  eggs  and  weigh  butter 
that  was  brought  in.  He  must  do  up  sugar  and  grind  coffee 
and  measure  dress  goods  and  match  silks;  he  must  with  the 
suavest  gentility  ask  if  there  would  not  be  something  else 
to-day ;  and  he  must  see  that  babies  hazardously  left  on  count- 
ers did  not  roll  off. 

He  lived  in  a  vortex  of  mental  confusion,  performing  his 
tasks  mechanically.  When  drawing  a  gallon  of  kerosene  or 
refolding  the  shown  dress  goods,  or  at  any  task  not  requiring 
him  to  be  genially  talkative,  he  would  be  saying  to  Miss 
Augusta  Blivens  in  far-off  Hollywood,  "Yes,  my  wife  is  more 
than  a  wife.  She  is  my  best  pal,  and,  I  may  also  add,  my 
severest  critic." 

There  was  but  one  break  in  the  dreary  monotony,  and  that 
was  when  Lowell  Hardy,  Simsbury's  highly  artistic  photog- 
rapher, came  in  to  leave  an  order  for  groceries.  Lowell  wore 
a  soft  hat  with  rakish  brim,  and  affected  low  collars  and  flow- 
ing cravats,  the  artistic  effect  of  these  being  heightened  in  his 
studio  work  by  a  purple  velvet  jacket.  Even  in  Gashwiler's 
he  stood  out  as  an  artist.  Merton  received  his  order,  and 
noting  that  Gashwiler  was  beyond  earshot  bespoke  his  ser- 
vices for  the  following  afternoon. 

"Say,  Lowell,  be  on  the  lot  at  two  sharp  to-morrow,  will 
you?  I  want  to  shoot  some  Western  stuff — some  stills." 

Merton  thrilled  as  he  used  these  highly  technical  phrases. 
He  had  not  read  his  magazines  for  nothing. 

Lowell  Hardy  considered,  then  consented.  He  believed 
that  he,  too,  might  some  day  be  called  to  Hollywood  after  they 
had  seen  the  sort  of  work  he  could  turn  out.  He  always 
finished  his  art  studies  of  Merton  with  great  care,  and  took 


32  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

pains  to  have  the  artist's  signature  entirely  legible.  "All 
right,  Mert,  I'll  be  there.  I  got  some  new  patent  paper  I'll 
try  out  on  these." 

"On  the  lot  at  two  sharp  to  shoot  Western  stuff,"  repeated 
Merton  with  relish. 

"Right-o!"  assented  Lowell,  and  returned  to  more  prosaic 
studio  art. 

The  day  wore  itself  to  a  glad  end.  The  last  exigent  cus- 
tomer had  gone,  the  curtains  were  up,  the  lights  were  out,  and 
at  five  minutes  past  nine  the  released  slave,  meeting  Tessie 
Kearns  at  her  front  door,  escorted  her  with  a  high  heart  to 
the  second  show  at  the  Bijou  Palace.  They  debated  staying 
out  until  after  the  wretched  comedy  had  been  run,  but  later 
agreed  that  they  should  see  this,  as  Tessie  keenly  wished  to 
know  why  people  laughed  at  such  things.  The  antics  of  the 
painfully  cross-eyed  man  distressed  them  both,  though  the 
mental  inferiors  by  whom  they  were  surrounded  laughed 
noisily.  Merton  wondered  how  any  producer  could  bring 
himself  to  debase  so  great  an  art,  and  Tessie  wondered  if  she 
hadn't,  in  a  way,  been  aiming  over  the  public's  head  with 
her  scenarios.  After  all,  you  had  to  give  the  public  what  it 
wanted.  She  began  to  devise  comedy  elements  for  her  next 
drama. 

But  The  Hazards  of  Hortense  came  mercifully  to  soothe 
their  annoyance.  The  slim  little  girl  with  a  wistful  smile 
underwent  a  rich  variety  of  hazards,  each  threatening  a  terri- 
ble death.  Through  them  all  she  came  unscathed,  leaving 
behind  her  a  trail  of  infuriated  scoundrels  whom  she  had 
thwarted.  She  escaped  from  an  underworld  den  in  a  Chicago 
slum  just  in  the  nick  of  time,  cleverly  concealing  herself  in  the 
branches  of  the  great  eucalyptus  tree  that  grew  hard  by, 
while  her  maddened  pursuers  scattered  in  their  search  for 
the  prize.  Again  she  was  captured,  this  time  to  be  conveyed 
by  aeroplane,  a  helpless  prisoner  and  subject  to  the  most 
fiendish  insults  by  Black  Steve,  to  the  frozen  North.  But  in 
the  far  Alaskan  wilds  she  eluded  the  fiends  and  drove  swiftly 
over  the  frozen  wastes  with  their  only  dog  team. 


WESTERN  STUFF  33 

Having  left  her  pursuers  far  behind,  she  decided  to  rest  for 
the  night  in  a  deserted  cabin  along  the  way.  Here  a  blizzard 
drove  snow  through  the  chinks  between  the  logs,  and  a  pack 
of  fierce  wolves  besieged  her.  She  tried  to  bar  the  door,  but 
the  bar  was  gone.  At  that  moment  she  heard  a  call.  Could 
it  be  Black  Steve  again?  No,  thank  heaven !  The  door  was 
pushed  open  and  there  stood  Ralph  Murdock,  her  fiance. 
There  was  a  quick  embrace  and  words  of  cheer  from  Ralph. 
They  must  go  on. 

But  no,  the  wind  cut  like  a  knife,  and  the  wolves  still 
prowled.  The  film  here  showed  a  running  insert  of  cruel 
wolves  exposing  all  their  fangs.  Ralph  had  lost  his  rifle. 
He  went  now  to  put  his  arm  through  the  iron  loops  in  place 
of  the  missing  bar.  The  wolves  sought  to  push  open  the  door, 
but  Ralph's  arm  foiled  them. 

Then  the  outside  of  the  cabin  was  shown,  with  Black  Steve 
and  his  three  ugly  companions  furtively  approaching.  The 
wolves  had  gone,  but  human  wolves,  ten  thousand  times 
more  cruel,  had  come  in  their  place.  Back  in  the  cabin 
Ralph  and  Hortense  discovered  that  the  wolves  had  gone. 
It  had  an  ugly  look.  Why  should  the  wolves  go?  Ralph 
opened  the  door  and  they  both  peered  out.  There  in  the 
shadow  of  a  eucalyptus  tree  stood  Black  Steve  and  his  das- 
tardly crew.  They  were  about  to  storm  the  cabin.  All  was 
undoubtedly  lost. 

Not  until  the  following  week  would  the  world  learn  how 
Hortense  and  her  manly  fiance  had  escaped  this  trap.  Again 
had  Beulah  Baxter  striven  and  suffered  to  give  the  public 
something  better  and  finer. 

"A  wonder  girl,"  declared  Merton  when  they  were  again 
in  the  open.  "That's  what  I  call  her — a  wonder  girl.  And 
she  owes  it  all  to  hard,  unceasing  struggle  and  work  and  pains 
and  being  careful.  You  ought  to  read  that  new  interview 
with  her  in  this  month's  Silver  Screenings." 

"Yes,  yes,  she's  wonderful,"  assented  Tessie  as  they 
strolled  to  the  door  of  her  shop.  "But  I've  been  thinking 
about  comedy.  You  know  my  new  one  I'm  writing — 


34  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

of  course  it's  a  big,  vital  theme,  all  about  a  heartless  wife 
with  her  mind  wholly  on  society  and  bridge  clubs  and  danc- 
ing and  that  sort  of  dissipation,  and  her  husband  is  Hubert 
Glendenning,  a  studious  young  lawyer  who  doesn't  like 
to  go  out  evenings  but  would  rather  play  with  the  kiddies  a 
bit  after  their  mother  has  gone  to  a  party,  or  read  over  some 
legal  documents  in  the  library,  which  is  very  beautifully 
furnished;  and  her  old  school  friend,  Corona  Bartlett,  comes 
to  stay  at  the  house,  a  very  voluptuous  type,  high  coloured, 
with  black  hair  and  lots  of  turquoise  jewellery,  and  she's  a 
bad  woman  through  and  through,  and  been  divorced  and 
everything  by  a  man  whose  heart  she  broke,  and  she's  be- 
come a  mere  adventuress  with  a  secret  vice — she  takes 
perfume  in  her  tea,  like  I  saw  that  one  did — and  all  her  evil 
instincts  are  aroused  at  once  by  Hubert,  who  doesn't  really 
care  deeply  for  her,  as  she  has  only  a  surface  appeal  of  mere 
sensuous  beauty;  but  he  sees  that  his  wife  is  neglecting  him 
and  having  an  affair  with  an  Italian  count — I  found  such 
a  good  name  for  him,  Count  Ravioli — and  staying  out  with 
him  until  all  hours;  so  in  a  moment  of  weakness  he  gives 
himself  to  Corona  Bartlett,  and  then  sees  that  he  must  break 
up  his  home  and  get  a  divorce  and  marry  Corona  to  make 
an  honest  woman  of  her;  but  of  course  his  wife  is  brought 
to  her  senses,  so  she  sees  that  she  has  been  in  the  wrong 
and  has  a  big  scene  with  Corona  in  which  she  scorns  her 
and  Corona  slinks  away,  and  she  forgives  Hubert  his  one 
false  step  because  it  was  her  fault.  It's  full  of  big  situations, 
but  what  I'm  wondering — I'm  wondering  if  I  couldn't  risk 
some  comedy  in  it  by  having  the  faithful  old  butler  a  cross- 
eyed man.  Nothing  so  outrageous  as  that  creature  we  just 
saw,  but  still  noticeably  cross-eyed.  Do  you  think  it  would 
lighten  some  of  the  grimmer  scenes,  perhaps,  and  wouldn't 
it  be  good  pathos  to  have  the  butler  aware  of  his  infirmity 
and  knowing  the  greatest  surgeons  in  the  world  can't  help 
him?" 

"Well,"  Merton  considered,  "if  I  were  you  I  shouldn't 
chance  it.     It  would  be  mere  acrobatic  humour.     And  why 


WESTERN  STUFF  35 

do  you  want  any  one  to  be  funny  when  you  have  a  big  gripping 
thing  of  love  and  hate  like  that?  I  don't  believe  I'd  have 
him  cross-eyed.  I'd  have  him  elderly  and  simple  and  digni- 
fied. And  you  don't  want  your  audience  to  laugh,  do  you, 
when  he  holds  up  both  hands  to  show  how  shocked  he  is  at 
the  way  things  are  going  on  in  that  house?" 

"Well,  maybe  I  won't  then.  It  was  just  a  thought.  I 
believe  you  have  the  right  instinct  in  those  matters,  Merton. 
I'll  leave  him  as  he  is." 

"Good-night,  then,"  said  Merton.  "I  got  to  be  on  the 
lot  to-morrow.  My  camera  man's  coming  at  two.  Shooting 
some  Western  stuff." 

"Oh,  my!    Really?" 

Tessie  gazed  after  him  admiringly.  He  let  himself  into 
the  dark  store,  so  lately  the  scene  of  his  torment,  and  on  the 
way  to  his  little  room  stopped  to  reach  under  the  grocery 
counter  for  those  hidden  savings.  To-night  he  would  add 
to  them  the  fifteen  dollars  lavished  upon  him  by  Gashwiler 
at  the  close  of  a  week's  toil.  The  money  was  in  a  tobacco 
pouch.  He  lighted  the  lamp  on  his  table,  placed  the  three 
new  bills  beside  it  and  drew  out  the  hoard.  He  would  count 
it  to  confirm  his  memory  of  the  grand  total. 

The  bills  were  frayed,  lacking  the  fresh  green  of  new  ones; 
weary  looking,  with  an  air  of  being  glad  to  rest  at  last  after 
much  passing  from  hand  to  hand  as  symbols  of  wealth.  Their 
exalted  present  owner  tenderly  smoothed  out  several  that 
had  become  crumpled,  secured  them  in  a  neat  pile,  adding 
the  three  recently  acquired  five-dollar  bills,  and  proceeded 
to  count,  moistening  the  ends  of  a  thumb  and  finger  in 
defiance  of  the  best  sanitary  teaching.  It  was  no  time  to 
think  of  malignant  bacteria. 

By  his  remembered  count  he  should  now  be  possessed  of 
two  hundred  and  twelve  dollars.  And  there  was  the  two-dollar 
bill,  a  limp,  gray  thing,  abraded  almost  beyond  identification. 
He  placed  this  down  first,  knowing  that  the  remaining  bills 
should  amount  to  two  hundred  and  ten  dollars.  Slowly  he 
counted,  to  finish  with  a  look  of  blank,  hesitating  wonder. 


36  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

He  made  another  count,  hastily,  but  taking  greater  care. 
The  wonder  grew.  Again  he  counted,  slowly  this  time,  so 
that  there  could  be  no  doubt.  And  now  he  knew!  He 
possessed  thirty-three  dollars  more  than  he  had  thought. 
Knowing  this  was  right,  he  counted  again  for  the  luxury 
of  it.  Two  hundred  and  forty-five  obvious  dollars! 

How  had  he  lost  count?  He  tried  to  recall.  He  could 
remember  taking  out  the  money  he  had  paid  Lowell  Hardy 
for  the  last  batch  of  Clifford  Armytage  stills — for  Lowell, 
although  making  professional  rates  to  Merton,  still  believed 
the  artist  to  be  worth  his  hire — and  he  could  remember 
taking  some  more  out  to  send  to  the  mail-order  house  in 
Chicago  for  the  cowboy  things;  but  it  was  plain  that  he  had 
twice,  at  least,  crowded  a  week's  salary  into  the  pouch  and 
forgotten  it. 

It  was  a  pleasurable  experience;  it  was  like  finding  thirty- 
three  dollars.  And  he  was  by  that  much  nearer  to  his  goal; 
that  much  sooner  would  he  be  released  from  bondage; 
thirty-three  dollars  sooner  could  he  look  Gashwiler  in  the 
eye  and  say  what  he  thought  of  him  and  his  emporium. 
In  his  nightly  prayer  he  did  .not  neglect  to  render  thanks 
for  this. 

He  dressed  the  next  morning  with  a  new  elation.  He 
must  be  more  careful  about  keeping  tab  on  his  money,  but 
also  it  was  wonderful  to  find  more  than  you  expected.  He 
left  the  storeroom  that  reeked  of  kerosene  and  passed  into 
the  emporium  to  replace  his  treasure  in  its  hiding  place. 
The  big  room  was  dusky  behind  the  drawn  front  curtains, 
but  all  the  smells  were  there-^-the  smell  of  ground  coffee 
and  spices  at  the  grocery  counter;  farther  on,  the  smothering 
smell  of  prints  and  woolens  and  new  leather. 

The  dummies,  waiting  down  by  the  door  to  be  put  outside, 
regarded  each  other  in  blank  solemnity.  A  few  big  flies 
droned  lazily  about  their  still  forms.  Merton  eyed  the  dusty 
floor,  the  gleaming  counters,  the  curtains  that  shielded 
the  shelves,  with  a  new  disdain.  Sooner  than  he  had  thought 
he  would  bid  them  a  last  farewell.  And  to-day,  at  least, 


WESTERN  STUFF  37 

he  was  free  of  them — free  to  be  on  the  lot  at  two,  to  shoot 
Western  stuff.  Let  to-morrow,  with  its  old  round  of  de- 
grading tasks,  take  care  of  itself. 

At  10:30  he  was  in  church.  He  was  not  as  attentive  to 
the  sermon  as  he  should  have  been,  for  it  now  occurred 
to  him  that  he  had  no  stills  of  himself  in  the  garb  of  a  clergy- 
man. This  was  worth  considering,  because  he  was  not 
going  to  be  one  of  those  one-part  actors.  He  would  have  a 
wide  range  of  roles.  He  would  be  able  to  play  anything. 
He  wondered  how  the  Rev.  Otto  Carmichael  would  take 
the  request  for  a  brief  loan  of  one  of  his  pulpit  suits.  Per- 
haps he  was  not  so  old  as  he  looked;  perhaps  he  might 
remember  that  he,  too,  had  once  been  young  and  fired  with 
high  ideals.  It  would  be  worth  trying.  And  the  things 
could  be  returned  after  a  brief  studio  session  with  Lowell 
Hardy. 

He  saw  himself  cast  in  such  a  part,  the  handsome  young 
clergyman,  exponent  of  a  muscular  Christianity.  He  comes 
to  the  toughest  cattle  town  in  all  the  great  Southwest, 
determined  to  make  honest  men  and  good  women  of  its 
sinning  derelicts.  He  wins  the  hearts  of  these  rugged  but 
misguided  souls.  Though  at  first  they  treat  him  rough, 
they  learn  to  respect  him,  and  they  call  him  the  fighting 
parson.  Eventually  he  wins  the  hand  in  marriage  of  the 
youngest  of  the  dance-hall  denizens,  a  sweet  young  girl  who 
despite  her  evil  surroundings  has  remained  as  pure  and  good 
as  she  is  beautiful. 

Anyway,  if  he  had  those  clothes  for  an  hour  or  two  while 
the  artist  made  a  few  studies  of  him  he  would  have  something 
else  to  show  directors  in  search  of  fresh  talent. 

After  church  he  ate  a  lonely  meal  served  by  Metta  Judson 
at  the  Gashwiler  residence.  The  Gashwilers  were  on  their 
accustomed  Sabbath  visit  to  the  distant  farm  of  Mrs.  Gash- 
wiler's  father.  But  as  he  ate  he  became  conscious  that  the 
Gashwiler  influence  was  not  wholly  withdrawn.  From 
above  the  mantel  he  was  sternly  regarded  by  a  tinted  enlarge- 
ment of  his  employer's  face  entitled  Photographic  Study 


38  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

by  Lowell  Hardy.  Lowell  never  took  photographs  merely, 
He  made  photographic  studies,  and  the  specimen  at  hand 
was  one  of  his  most  daring  efforts.  Merton  glared  at  it  in 
free  hostility — a  clod,  with  ideals  as  false  as  the  artist's 
pink  on  his  leathery  cheeks!  He  hurried  his  meal,  glad  to  be 
relieved  from  the  inimical  scrutiny. 

He  was  glad  to  be  free  from  this  and  from  the  determined 
recital  by  Metta  Judson  of  small-town  happenings.  What 
cared  he  that  Gus  Giddings  had  been  fined  ten  dollars  and 
costs  by  Squire  Belcher  for  his  low  escapade,  or  that  Gus's 
father  had  sworn  to  lick  him  within  an  inch  of  his  We  if 
he  ever  ketched  him  touching  stimmilints  again? 

He  went  to  the  barn,  climbed  to  the  hayloft,  and  undid 
the  bundle  containing  his  Buck  Benson  outfit.  This  was 
fresh  from  the  mail-order  house  in  Chicago.  He  took  out 
almost  reverently  a  pair  of  high-heeled  boots  with  purple 
tops,  a  pair  of  spurs,  a  gay  shirt,  a  gayer  neckerchief,  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat,  a  leather  holster,  and — most  impressive  of  all 
— a  pair  of  goatskin  chaps  dyed  a  violent  maroon.  All  these 
he  excitedly  donned,  the  spurs  last.  Then  he  clambered 
down  the  ladder  from  the  loft,  somewhat  impeded  by  the 
spurs,  and  went  into  the  kitchen.  Metta  Judson,  washing 
dishes,  gave  a  little  cry  of  alarm.  Nothing  like  this  had 
ever  before  invaded  the  Gashwiler  home  by  front  door  or 
back. 

"Why,  Mert'  Gill,  whatever  you  dressed  up  like  that  for? 
My  stars,  you  look  like  a  cowboy  or  something!  Well,  I 
must  say!" 

"Say,  Metta,  do  me  a  favour.  I  want  to  see  how  these 
things  look  in  a  glass.  It's  a  cowboy  outfit  for  when  I  play 
regular  Buck  Benson  parts,  and  everything's  got  to  be 
just  so  or  the  audience  writes  to  the  magazines  about  it  and 
makes  fun  of  you." 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Metta.  "You  can  git  a  fine  look  at 
yourself  in  the  tall  glass  in  the  old  lady's  bedroom." 

Forthwith  he  went,  profaning  a  sanctuary,  to  survey 
himself  in  a  glass  that  had  never  reflected  anything  but 


WESTERN  STUFF  39 

the  discreet  arraying  of  his  employer's  lady.  He  looked 
long  and  earnestly.  The  effect  was  quite  all  he  had  hoped. 
He  lowered  the  front  of  the  broad-brimmed  hat  the  least 
bit,  tightened  his  belt  another  notch  and  moved  the  holster 
to  a  better  line.  He  looked  again.  From  feet  to  head  he 
was  perfect. 

Then,  slightly  crouching,  he  drew  his  revolver  from  the 
holster  and  held  it  forward  from  the  hip,  wrist  and  forearm 
rigidly  straight. 

"Throw  up  your  hands!" 

He  uttered  the  grim  words  in  a  low  tone,  but  one  facing 
him  would  not  have  been  deceived  by  low  tones.  Steely- 
eyed,  grim  of  face,  relentless  in  all  his  bearing,  the  most 
desperate  adversary  would  have  quailed.  Probably  even 
Gashwiler  himself  would  have  quailed.  When  Buck  Benson 
looked  and  spoke  thus  he  meant  it. 

He  held  it  a  long,  breathless  moment  before  relaxing. 
Then  he  tiptoed  softly  from  the  hallowed  confines  of  a  good 
woman's  boudoir  and  clattered  down  the  back  stairs  to  the 
kitchen.  He  was  thinking:  "I  certainly  got  to  get  me  an- 
other gun  if  I'm  ever  going  to  do  Two-Gun  Benson  parts, 
and  I  got  to  get  the  draw  down  better.  I  ain't  quick  enough 

yet." 

"Well,  did  you  like  your  rig?"  inquired  Metta  genially. 

"Oh,  it'll  do  for  the  stills  we're  shooting  to-day,"  replied 
the  actor.  "Of  course  I  ought  to  have  a  rattlesnake-skin 
band  on  my  hat,  and  the  things  look  too  new  yet.  And  say, 
Metta,  where's  the  clothesline?  I  want  to  practise  roping 
a  little  before  my  camera  man  gets  here." 

"My  stars!  You're  certainly  goin'  to  be  a  real  one,  ain't 
you?" 

She  brought  him  the  clothesline,  in  use  only  on  Mondays. 
He  re-coiled  it  carefully  and  made  a  running  noose  in  one  end. 

At  two  Lowell  Hardy  found  his  subject  casting  the  rope 
at  an  inattentive  Dexter.  The  old  horse  stood  in  the  yard, 
head  down,  one  foot  crossed  nonchalantly  before  the  other. 
A  slight  tremor,  a  nervous  flickering  of  his  skin,  was  all  that 


40  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

ensued  when  the  rope  grazed  him.  When  it  merely  fell  in 
his  general  neighbourhood,  as  it  oftener  did,  Dexter  did  not 
even  glance  up. 

"Good  stuff!'*  applauded  the  artist.  "Now  just  stand 
that  way,  holding  the  noose  out.  I  want  to  make  a  study  of 
that."  * 

He  rapidly  mounted  his  camera  on  a  tripod  and  put  in  a 
plate.  The  study  was  made.  Followed  several  studies  of 
the  fighting  face  of  Two-Gun  Benson,  grim  and  rigid,  about 
to  shoot  from  the  hip.  But  these  were  minor  bits.  More 
important  would  be  Buck  Benson  and  his  old  pal,  Pinto. 

From  the  barn  Merton  dragged  the  saddle,  blanket,  and 
bridle  he  had  borrowed  from  the  Giddings  House  livery 
stable.  He  had  never  saddled  a  horse  before,  but  he  had  not 
studied  in  vain.  He  seized  Dexter  by  a  wisp  of  his  surviving 
mane  and  simultaneously  planted  a  hearty  kick  in  the  beast's 
side,  with  a  command,  "Get  around  there,  you  old  skate!" 
Dexter  sighed  miserably  and  got  around  as  ordered.  He  was 
both  pained  and  astonished.  He  knew  that  this  was  Sunday. 
Never  had  he  been  forced  to  work  on  this  day.  But  he 
meekly  suffered  the  protrusion  of  a  bit  between  his  yellow 
teeth,  and  shuddered  but  slightly  when  a  blanket  and  then 
a  heavy  saddle  were  flung  across  his  back.  True,  he  looked 
up  in  some  dismay  when  the  girth  was  tightened.  Not 
once  in  all  his  years  had  he  been  saddled.  He  was  used  to 
having  things  loose  around  his  waist. 

The  girth  went  still  tighter.  Dexter  glanced  about  with 
genuine  concern.  Someone  was  intending  to  harm  him. 
He  curved  his  swanlike  neck  and  snapped  savagely  at  the 
shoulder  of  his  aggressor,  who  kicked  him  again  in  the  side 
and  yelled,  "Whoa,  there,  dang  you!" 

Dexter  subsided.  He  saw  it  was  no  use.  Whatever 
queer  thing  they  meant  to  do  to  him  would  be  done  despite 
all  his  resistance.  Still  his  alarm  had  caused  him  to  hold  up 
his  head  now.  He  was  looking  much  more  like  a  horse. 

"There!"  said  Merton  Gill,  and  as  a  finishing  touch  he 
lashed  the  coiled  clothesline  to  the  front  of  the  saddle. 


WESTERN  STUFF  41 

"Now,  here!  Get  me  this  way.  This  is  one  of  the  best 
things  I  do — that  is,  so  far."  Fondly  he  twined  his  arms 
about  the  long,  thin  neck  of  Dexter,  who  tossed  his  head 
and  knocked  off  the  cowboy  hat.  "Never  mind  that — 
it's  out,"  said  Merton.  "Can't  use  it  in  this  scene."  He 
laid  his  cheek  to  the  cheek  of  his  pet.  "  Well,  old  pal,  they're 
takin*  yuh  from  me,  but  we  got  to  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip. 
You  an'  me  has  been  through  some  purty  lively  times  to- 
gether, but  we  got  to  face  the  music  at  last — there,  Lowell, 
did  you  get  that?" 

The  artist  had  made  his  study.  He  made  three  others 
of  the  same  affecting  scene  at  different  angles.  Dexter  was 
overwhelmed  with  endearments.  Doubtless  he  was  puzzled 
— to  be  kicked  in  the  ribs  at  one  moment,  the  next  to  be 
fondled.  But  Lowell  Hardy  was  enthusiastic.  He  said  he 
would  have  some  corking  studies.  He  made  another  of 
Buck  Benson  preparing  to  mount  good  old  Pinto;  though, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  Buck,  it  appeared,  was  not  even  half 
prepared  to  mount. 

"Go  on,  jump  on  him  now,"  suggested  the  artist.  "I'll 
get  a  few  more  that  way." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  Merton  hesitated.  He  was  twenty- 
two  years  old,  and  he  had  never  yet  been  aboard  a  horse. 
Perhaps  he  shouldn't  try  to  go  too  far  in  one  lesson.  "You 
see,  the  old  boy's  pretty  tired  from  his  week's  work.  Maybe 
I  better  not  mount  him.  Say,  I'll  tell  you,  take  me  rolling 
a  cigarette,  just  standing  by  him.  I  darned  near  forgot 
the  cigarettes." 

From  the  barn  he  brought  a  sack  of  tobacco  and  some 
brown  papers.  He  had  no  intention  of  smoking,  but  this 
kind  of  cigarette  was  too  completely  identified  with  Buck 
Benson  to  be  left  out.  Lolling  against  the  side  of  Dexter, 
he  poured  tobacco  from  the  sack  into  one  of  the  papers. 

"Get  me  this  way,"  he  directed,  "just  pouring  it 
out." 

He  had  not  yet  learned  to  roll  a  cigarette,  butGusGiddings, 
the  Simsbury  outlaw,  had  promised  to  teach  him.  Anyway, 


42  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

it  was  enough  now  to  be  looking  keenly  out  from  under  his 
hat  while  he  poured  tobacco  into  the  creased  paper  against 
the  background  of  good  old  Pinto.  An  art  study  of  this 
pose  was  completed.  But  Lowell  Hardy  craved  more  action, 
more  variety. 

"Go  on.  Get  up  on  him,"  he  urged.  "I  want  to  make 
a  study  of  that." 

"Well— "again  Merton  faltered— "the  old  skate's  tired 
out  from  a  hard  week,  and  I'm  not  feeling  any  too  lively 
myself." 

"Shucks!  It  won't  kill  him  if  you  get  on  his  back  for  a 
minute,  will  it?  And  you'll  want  one  on  him  to  show,  won't 
you?  Hurry  up,  while  the  light's  right." 

Yes,  he  would  need  a  mounted  study  to  show.  Many 
times  he  had  enacted  a  scene  in  which  a  director  had  looked 
over  the  art  studies  of  Clifford  Armytage  and  handed  them 
back  with  the  remark,  "But  you  seem  to  play  only  society 
parts,  Mr.  Armytage.  All  very  interesting,  and  I've  no 
doubt  we  can  place  you  very  soon;  but  just  at  present  we're 
needing  a  lead  for  a  Western,  a  man  who  can  look  the  part 
and  ride." 

Thereupon  he  handed  these  Buck  Benson  stills  to  the  man, 
whose  face  would  instantly  relax  into  an  expression  of  pleased 
surprise. 

"The  very  thing,"  he  would  say.  And  among  those  stills, 
certainly,  should  be  one  of  Clifford  Armytage  actually  on  the 
back  of  his  horse.  He'd  chance  it. 

"All  right;  just  a  minute." 

He  clutched  the  bridle  reins  of  Dexter  under  his  drooping 
chin,  and  overcoming  a  feeble  resistance  dragged  him  along- 
side the  watering  trough.  Dexter  at  first  thought  he  was 
wished  to  drink,  but  a  kick  took  that  nonsense  out  of  him. 
With  extreme  care  Merton  stood  upon  the  edge  of  the  trough 
and  thrust  a  leg  blindly  over  the  saddle.  With  some  deter- 
mined clambering  he  was  at  last  seated.  His  feet  were  in  the 
stirrups.  There  was  a  strange  light  in  his  eyes.  There 
was  a  strange  light  in  Dexter's  eyes.  To  each  of  them  the 


WESTERN  STUFF  43 

experience  was  not  only  without  precedent  but  rather  un- 
pleasant. 

"Ride  him  out  in  the  middle  here,  away  from  that  well," 
directed  the  camera  man. 

"You — you  better  lead  him  out,"  suggested  the  rider. 
"  I  can  feel  him  tremble  already.  He — he  might  break  down 
under  me." 

Metta  Judson,  from  the  back  porch,  here  came  into  the 
piece  with  lines  that  the  author  had  assuredly  not  written 
for  her. 

"Giddap,  there,  you  Dexter  Gashwiler,"  called  Metta 
loudly  and  with  the  best  intentions. 

"You  keep  still,"  commanded  the  rider  severely,  not  turn- 
ing his  head.  What  a  long  way  it  seemed  to  the  ground! 
He  had  never  dreamed  that  horses  were  so  lofty.  "Better 
lead  him,"  he  repeated  to  his  camera  man. 

Lowell  Hardy  grasped  the  bridle  reins,  and  after  many 
vain  efforts  persuaded  Dexter  to  stumble  away  from  the  well. 
His  rider  grasped  the  horn  of  his  saddle. 

"Look  out,  don't  let  him  buck,"  he  called. 

But  Dexter  had  again  become  motionless,  except  for  a 
recurrent  trembling  under  this  monstrous  infliction. 

"Now,  there,"  began  the  artist.  "Hold  that.  You're 
looking  off  over  the  Western  hills.  Atta  boy!  Wait  till 
I  get  a  side  view." 

"Move  your  camera,"  said  the  rider.  "Seems  to  me  he 
doesn't  want  to  turn  around." 

But  again  the  artist  turned  Dexter  half  around.  That 
wasn't  so  bad.  Merton  began  to  feel  the  thrill  of  it.  He 
even  lounged  in  the  saddle  presently,  one  leg  over  the  pom- 
mel, and  seemed  about  to  roll  another  cigarette  while  another 
art  study  was  made.  He  continued  to  lounge  there  while  the 
artist  packed  his  camera.  What  had  he  been  afraid  of?  He 
could  sit  a  horse  as  well  as  the  next  man;  probably  a  few  little 
tricks  about  it  he  hadn't  learned  yet,  but  he'd  get  these,  too. 

"I  bet  they'll  come  out  fine,"  he  called  to  the  departing 
artist. 


44  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"  Leave  that  to  me.  I  dare  say  I'll  be  able  to  do  something 
good  with  them.  So  long." 

"So  long,"  returned  Merton,  and  was  left  alone  on  the 
back  of  a  horse  higher  than  people  would  think  until  they 
got  on  him.  Indeed  he  was  beginning  to  like  it.  If  you 
just  had  a  little  nerve  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  anything. 
Very  carefully  he  clambered  from  the  saddle.  His  old  pal 
shook  himself  with  relief  and  stood  once  more  with  bowed 
head  and  crossed  forelegs. 

His  late  burden  observed  him  approvingly.  There  was 
good  old  Pinto  after  a  hard  day's  run  over  the  mesa.  He  had 
borne  his  beloved  owner  far  ahead  of  the  sheriff's  posse,  and 
was  now  securing  a  moment's  much-needed  rest.  Merton 
undid  the  riata  and  for  half  an  hour  practised  casting  it  at 
his  immobile  pet.  Once  the  noose  settled  unerringly  over 
the  head  of  Dexter,  who  still  remained  immobile. 

Then  there  was  the  lightning  draw  to  be  practised.  Again 
and  again  the  trusty  weapon  of  Buck  Benson  flashed  from  its 
holster  to  the  damage  of  a  slower  adversary.  He  was  get- 
ting that  draw  down  pretty  good.  From  the  hip  with  straight 
wrist  and  forearm  Buck  was  ready  to  shoot  in  no  time  at  all. 
Throughout  that  villain-infested  terrain  along  the  border 
he  was  known  for  his  quick  draw.  The  most  desperate  of 
them  would  never  molest  him  except  they  could  shoot  him 
from  behind.  With  his  back  to  a  wall,  they  slunk  from  the 
encounter. 

Elated  from  this  practice  and  from  the  memory  of  that 
one  successful  rope  cast,  Merton  became  daring  hi  the  ex- 
treme. He  considered  nothing  less  than  remounting  his 
old  pal  and  riding,  in  the  cool  of  early  evening,  up  and  down 
the  alley  upon  which  the  barnyard  gave.  He  coiled  the  rope 
and  again  lashed  it  to  the  left  front  of  the  saddle.  Then 
he  curved  an  affectionate  arm  over  the  arched  neck  of  Pinto, 
who  sighed  deeply. 

"Well,  old  pal,  you  and  me  has  still  got  some  mighty 
long  miles  to  git  over  between  now  and  sunup  to-morrow. 
I  reckon  we  got  to  put  a  right  smart  of  distance  between 


WESTERN  STUFF  45 

us  and  that  pesky  sheriff's  posse,  but  I  know  yuh  ain't  lost 
heart,  old  pal." 

Dexter  here  tossed  his  head,  being  cloyed  with  these 
embraces,  and  Two-Gun  Benson  caught  a  look  in  the  desper- 
ate eyes  of  his  pet  which  he  did  not  wholly  like.  Perhaps 
it  would  be  better  not  to  ride  him  any  more  to-day.  Per- 
haps it  would  be  better  not  to  ride  him  again  until  next 
Sunday.  After  all,  wasn't  Dexter  practically  a  wild  horse, 
caught  up  from  the  range  and  broken  to  saddle  only  that 
afternoon?  No  use  overdoing  it.  At  this  moment  the 
beast's  back  looked  higher  than  ever. 

It  was  the  cutting  remark  of  a  thoughtless,  empty-headed 
girl  that  confirmed  Merton  in  his  rash  resolve.  Metta 
Judson,  again  on  the  back  steps,  surveyed  the  scene  with 
kindling  eyes. 

"I  bet  you  daresn't  get  on  him  again,"  said  Metta. 

These  were  strong  words;  not  words  to  be  flung  lightly  at 
Two-Gun  Benson. 

"You  know  a  lot  about  it,  don't  you?"  parried  Merton 
Gill. 

"Afraid  of  that  old  skate!"  murmured  Metta,  counter- 
feiting the  inflections  of  pity. 

Her  target  shot  her  a  glance  of  equal  pity  for  her  lack  of 
understanding  and  empty-headed  banter.  He  stalked  to 
the  barnyard  gate  and  opened  it.  The  way  to  his  haven 
over  the  border  was  no  longer  barred.  He  returned  to 
Dexter,  firmly  grasped  the  bridle  reins  under  his  weak  chin 
and  cajoled  him  again  to  the  watering  trough.  Metta 
Judson  was  about  to  be  overwhelmed  with  confusion.  From 
the  edge  of  the  trough  he  again  clambered  into  the  saddle, 
the  new  boots  groping  a  way  to  the  stirrups.  The  reins 
in  his  left  hand,  he  swept  off  his  ideal  hat  with  a  careless  ges- 
ture— he  wished  he  had  had  an  art  study  made  of  this,  but 
you  can't  think  of  everything  at  one  time.  He  turned 
loftily  to  Metta  as  one  who  had  not  even  heard  her  tasteless 
taunts. 

"  Well,  so  long!    I  won't  be  out  late." 


46  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

Metta  was  now  convinced  that  she  had  in  her  heart  done 
this  hero  a  wrong. 

"  You  better  be  here  before  the  folks  get  back ! "  she  warned. 

Merton  knew  this  as  well  as  she  did,  but  the  folks  wouldn't 
be  back  for  a  couple  of  hours  yet,  and  all  he  meant  to  venture 
was  a  ride  at  sober  pace  the  length  of  the  alley. 

"Oh,  I'll  take  care  of  that!"  he  said.  "A  few  miles'  stiff 
gallop '11  be  all  I  want."  He  jerked  Dexter's  head  up, 
snapped  the  reins  on  his  neck,  and  addressed  him  in  genial, 
comradely  but  authoritative  tones. 

"Git  up  there,  old  hoss!" 

Dexter  lowered  his  head  again  and  remained  as  if  posing 
conscientiously  for  the  statue  of  a  tired  horse. 

"Giddap,  there,  you  old  skate!"  again  ordered  the  rider. 

The  comradely  unction  was  gone  from  his  voice  and  the 
bony  neck  received  a  smarter  wallop  with  the  reins.  Dexter 
stood  unmoved.  He  seemed  to  be  fearing  that  the  worst 
was  now  coming,  and  that  he  might  as  well  face  it  on  that 
spot  as  elsewhere.  He  remained  deaf  to  threats  and  en- 
treaties alike.  No  hoof  moved  from  its  resting  place. 

"Giddap,  there,  you  old  Dexter  Gashwiler!"  ordered 
Metta,  and  was  not  rebuked.  But  neither  would  Dexter 
yield  to  a  woman's  whim. 

"I'll  tell  you!"  said  Merton,  now  contemptuous  of  his 
mount.  "Get  the  buggy  whip  and  tickle  his  ribs." 

Metta  sped  on  his  errand,  her  eyes  shining  with  the  lust 
for  torture.  With  the  frayed  end  of  the  whip  from  the  de- 
livery wagon  she  lightly  scored  the  exposed  ribs  of  Dexter, 
tormenting  him  with  devilish  cunning.  Dexter's  hide  shut- 
tled back  and  forth.  He  whinnied  protestingly,  but  did  not 
stir  even  one  hoof. 

"That's  the  idea,"  said  Merton,  feeling  scornfully  secure 
on  the  back  of  this  spiritless  animal.  "Keep  it  up!  I  can 
feel  him  coming  to  life." 

Metta  kept  it  up.  Her  woman's  ingenuity  contrived 
new  little  tricks  with  the  instrument  of  torture.  She  would 
doubtless  have  had  a  responsible  post  with  the  Spanish 


WESTERN  STUFF  47 

Inquisition.  Face  set,  absorbed  in  her  evil  work,  she  tickled 
the  ribs  crosswise  and  tickled  between  them,  up  and  down, 
always  with  the  artist's  light  touch. 

Dexter's  frame  grew  tense,  his  head  came  up.  Once  more 
he  looked  like  a  horse.  He  had  been  brave  to  face  destruc- 
tion, but  he  found  himself  unable  to  face  being  tickled 
to  death.  If  only  they  had  chosen  some  other  method  for 
his  execution  he  would  have  perished  gamely,  but  this  was 
exquisitely  poignant — beyond  endurance.  He  tossed  his 
head  and  stepped  into  a  trot  toward  the  open  gate. 

Metta  yelled  in  triumph.  The  rider  tossed  his  own  head 
in  rhythm  to  Dexter's  trot.  His  whole  body  tossed  in  the 
saddle;  it  was  a  fearsome  pace;  the  sensations  were  like  noth- 
ing he  had  ever  dreamed  of.  And  he  was  so  high  above  the 
good  firm  ground!  Dexter  continued  his  jolting  progress 
to  the  applause  of  Metta.  The  rider  tried  to  command 
Metta  to  keep  still,  and  merely  bit  his  tongue. 

Stirred  to  life  by  the  tickling,  Dexter  now  became  more 
acutely  aware  of  that  strange,  restless  burden  on  his  back, 
and  was  inspired  to  free  himself  from  it.  He  increased  his 
pace  as  he  came  to  the  gate,  and  managed  a  backward 
kick  with  both  heels.  This  lost  the  rider  his  stirrups  and  left 
him  less  securely  seated  than  he  wished  to  be.  He  dropped 
the  reins  and  grasped  the  saddle's  pommel  with  both  hands. 

He  strangely  seemed  to  consider  the  pommel  the  steering 
wheel  of  a  motor  car.  He  seemed  to  be  twisting  it  with  the 
notion  of  guiding  Dexter.  All  might  have  been  well,  but 
on  losing  his  stirrups  the  rider  had  firmly  clasped  his  legs 
about  the  waist  of  the  animal.  Again  and  again  he  tightened 
them,  and  now  Dexter  not  only  looked  every  inch  a  horse 
but  very  painfully  to  his  rider  felt  like  one,  for  the  spurs 
were  goring  him  to  a  most  seditious  behaviour.  The  mere 
pace  was  slackened  only  that  he  might  alarmingly  kick  and 
shake  himself  in  a  manner  as  terrifying  to  the  rider  as  it  was 
unseemly  in  one  of  Dexter's  years. 

But  the  thing  was  inevitable,  because  once  in  his  remote, 
hot  youth  Dexter,  cavorting  innocently  in  an  orchard,  had 


48  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

kicked  over  a  hive  of  busy  bees  which  had  been  attending 
strictly  to  their  own  affairs  until  that  moment.  After 
that  they  had  attended  to  Dexter  with  a  thoroughness  that 
had  seared  itself  to  this  day  across  his  memory.  He  now 
sincerely  believed  that  he  had  overturned  another  hive  of 
bees,  and  that  not  but  by  the  most  strenuous  exertion  could 
he  escape  from  their  harrying.  They  were  stinging  him 
venomously  along  his  sides,  biting  deeper  with  every  jump. 
At  last  he  would  bear  his  rider  safely  over  the  border. 

The  rider  clasped  his  mount  ever  more  tightly.  The  deep 
dust  of  the  alley  road  mounted  high  over  the  spirited  scene, 
and  through  it  came  not  only  the  hearty  delight  of  Metta 
Judson  in  peals  of  womanly  laughter,  but  the  shrill  cries  of 
the  three  Ransom  children  whom  Merton  had  not  before 
noticed.  These  were  Calvin  Ransom,  aged  eight;  Elsie 
Ransom,  aged  six;  and  little  Woodrow  Ransom,  aged  four. 
Their  mother  had  lain  down  with  a  headache,  having  first 
ordered  them  to  take  their  picture  books  and  sit  quietly  in 
the  parlour  as  good  children  should  on  a  Sabbath  afternoon. 
So  they  had  noisily  pretended  to  obtain  the  picture  books 
and  then  quietly  tiptoed  out  into  the  backyard,  which  was 
not  so  stuffy  as  the  parlour. 

Detecting  the  meritorious  doings  in  the  Gashwiler  barn- 
yard, they  perched  in  a  row  on  the  alley  fence  and  had  been 
excited  spectators  from  the  moment  that  Merton  had 
mounted  his  horse. 

In  shrill  but  friendly  voices  they  had  piped,  "  Oh,  Merton 
Gill's  a  cowboy,  Merton  Gill's  a  cowboy!  Oh,  looka  the 
cowboy  on  the  big  horse ! " 

For  of  course  they  were  motion-picture  experts  and  would 
know  a  cowboy  when  they  saw  one.  Wide-eyed,  they  fol- 
lowed the  perilous  antics  of  Dexter  as  he  issued  from  the 
alley  gate,  and  they  screamed  with  childish  delight  when  the 
spurs  had  recalled  to  his  memory  that  far-off  dreadful  day 
with  the  busy  bees.  They  now  balanced  precariously  on 
the  alley  fence,  the  better  to  trace  Merton's  flight  through 
the  dust  cloud. 


WESTERN  STUFF  49 

"Merton's  in  a  runaway,  Merton 's  in  a  runaway,  Merlon's 
in  a  runaway ! "  they  shrieked,  but  with  none  of  the  sympathy 
that  would  have  become  them.  They  appeared  to  rejoice 
in  Merton's  plight.  "Merton's  in  a  runaway,"  they  joy- 
ously chanted. 

Suddenly  they  ceased,  frozen  with  a  new  and  splendid 
wonder,  for  their  descriptive  phrase  was  now  inexact.  Mer- 
ton  was  no  longer  in  a  runaway.  But  only  for  a  moment 
did  they  hesitate  before  taking  up  the  new  chant. 

"Looky,  looky.  He's  throwed  Merton  right  off  into  the 
dirt.  He's  throwed  Merton  right  off  into  the  dirt.  Oh, 
looky  Merton  Gill  right  down  there  in  the  dirt!" 

Again  they  had  become  exact.  Merton  was  right  down 
there  in  the  dirt,  and  a  frantic,  flashing-heeled  Dexter  was 
vanishing  up  the  alley  at  the  head  of  a  cloud  of  dust.  The 
friendly  Ransom  tots  leaped  from  the  fence  to  the  alley, 
forgetting  on  her  bed  of  pain  the  mother  who  supposed 
them  to  be  engrossed  with  picture  books  in  the  library. 
With  one  accord  they  ran  toward  the  prostrate  horseman, 
Calvin  ahead  and  Elsie  a  close  second,  holding  the  hand 
of  little  Woodrow. 

They  were  presently  able  to  observe  that  the  fleeing 
Dexter  had  narrowly  escaped  running  down  a  motor  car 
inopportunely  turning  at  that  moment  into  the  alley.  The 
gallant  animal  swerved  in  time,  leaving  the  car's  driver  and 
his  wife  aghast  at  their  slight  margin  of  safety.  Dexter 
vanished  to  the  right  up  shaded  Spruce  Street  on  a  Sabbath 
evening  as  the  first  call  to  evening  worship  pealed  from  a 
neighbouring  church  tower. 

His  late  rider  had  erected  himself  and  was  beating  dust 
from  the  new  chaps  and  the  front  of  the  new  shirt.  He 
picked  up  the  ideal  hat  and  dusted  that.  Underneath  all 
the  flurry  of  this  adventure  he  was  still  the  artist.  He  had 
been  set  afoot  in  the  desert  by  a  treacherous  horse;  he  must 
find  a  water  hole  or  perish  with  thirst.  He  replaced  the  hat, 
and  it  was  then  he  observed  the  motor  car  bearing  down 
the  alley  upon  him. 


50  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"My  good  gosh!"  he  muttered. 

The  Gashwilers  had  returned  a  full  two  hours  before  their 
accustomed  time.  The  car  halted  beside  him  and  his  em- 
ployer leaned  out  a  warmly  hostile  face. 

"What's  this  mean?"  he  demanded. 

The  time  was  not  one  to  tell  Gashwiler  what  he  thought 
of  him.  Not  only  was  there  a  lady  present,  but  he  felt  him- 
self at  a  disadvantage.  The  lady  saved  him  from  an  instant 
necessity  for  words. 

"That  was  our  new  clothesline;  I  recognized  it  at  once." 
The  woman  seemed  to  pride  herself  on  this  paltry  feat. 

"What's  this  mean?"  again  demanded  Gashwiler.  He 
was  now  a  man  of  one  idea. 

Again  was  Merton  Gill  saved  from  the  need  of  instant 
speech,  though  not  in  a  way  he  would  have  chosen  to  be 
saved.  The  three  Ransom  children  ran  up,  breathless, 
shouting. 

"Oh,  Merton,  here's  your  pistol.  I  found  it  right  in  the 
road  there."  "We  found  your  pistol  right  in  the  dirt  there. 
I  saw  it  first."  "You  did  not;  I  saw  it  first.  Merton,  will 
you  let  me  shoot  it  off,  Merton?  I  found  your  pistol,  didn't 
I,  Merton?  Didn't  I  find  it  right  in  the  road  there? "  The 
friendly  tots  did  little  step  dances  while  they  were  thus 
vocal. 

"Be  quiet,  children,"  commanded  Merton,  finding  a  voice. 
But  they  were  not  to  be  quelled  by  mere  tones. 

"He  throwed  Merton  right  off  into  the  dirt,  didn't  he, 
Merton?  Merton,  didn't  he  throw  you  right  off  into  the 
dirt,  Merton?  Did  he  hurt  you,  Merton?"  "Merton,  will 
you  lemme  shoot  it  off  just  once — just  once,  and  I'll  never 
ask  again?"  "He  didn't  either  find  it  first,  Merton."  "He 
throwed  you  off  right  into  the  dirt — didn't  he  throw  you 
right  off  into  the  dirt,  Merton?" 

With  a  harsher  show  of  authority,  or  perhaps  merely 
because  he  was  bearded — so  unreasoning  are  the  inhibitions 
of  the  young — Gashwiler  stilled  the  tumult.  The  dancing 
died. 


WESTERN  STUFF  51 

"What's  this  mean?"  he  repeated. 

"We  nearly  had  an  accident,"  said  the  lady. 

"What's  this  mean?" 

An  answer  of  sorts  could  no  longer  be  delayed. 

"Well,  I  thought  I'd  give  Dexter  a  little  exercise,  so  I 
saddled  him  up  and  was  going  to  ride  him  around  the  block, 
when — when  these  kids  here  yelled  and  scared  him  so  he 
ran  away." 

"Oh,  what  a  story!"  shouted  the  tots  in  unison.  "What 
a  bad  story!  You'll  go  to  the  bad  place,"  intoned  little 
Elsie. 

"  I  swear,  I  don't  know  what's  gettin'  into  you,"  declared 
Gashwiler.  "Don't  that  horse  get  exercise  enough  during 
the  week?  Don't  he  like  his  day  of  rest?  How'd  you  like 
me  to  saddle  you  up  and  ride  you  round  the  block?  I  guess 
you'd  like  that  pretty  well,  wouldn't  you?"  Gashwiler 
fancied  himself  in  this  bit  of  sarcasm,  brutal  though  it  was. 
He  toyed  with  it.  "Next  Sunday  I'll  saddle  you  up  and  ride 
you  round  the  block — see  how  you  like  that,  young  man." 

"It  was  our  clothesline,"  said  the  lady.  "I  could  tell  it 
right  off." 

With  a  womanish  tenacity  she  had  fastened  to  a  minor 
inconsequence  of  the  outrage.  Gashwiler  became  practical. 

"Well,  I  must  say,  it's  a  pretty  how-de-do.  That  horse'll 
make  straight  back  for  the  farm;  we  won't  have  any  delivery 
horse  to-morrow.  Sue,  you  get  out;  I'll  go  down  the  road 
a  piece  and  see  if  I  can  head  him  off." 

"He  turned  the  other  way,"  said  Merton. 

"Well,  he's  bound  to  head  around  for  the  farm.  I'll  go 
up  the  road  and  you  hurry  out  the  way  he  went.  Mebbe 
you  can  catch  him  before  he  gets  out  of  town." 

Mrs.  Gashwiler  descended  from  the  car. 

"You  better  have  that  clothesline  back  by  seven  o'clock 
to-morrow  morning,"  she  warned  the  offender. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  will." 

This  was  not  spoken  in  a  Buck  Benson  manner. 

"And  say" — Gashwiler  paused  in  turning  the  car — "what 


52  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

you  doing  in  that  outlandish  rig,  anyhow?  Must  think 
you're  one  o'  them  Wild  West  cowboys  or  something.  Huh !" 
This  last  carried  a  sneer  that  stung. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  can  pick  out  my  own  clothes  if  I  want  to." 

"Fine  things  to  call  clothes,  I  must  say.  Well,  go  see  if 
you  can  pick  out  that  horse  if  you're  such  a  good  picker- 
out." 

Again  Gashwiler  was  pleased  with  himself.  He  could  play 
venomously  with  words. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Merton,  and  plodded  on  up  the  alley, 
followed  at  a  respectful  distance  by  the  Ransom  kiddies, 
who  at  once  resumed  their  vocal  exercises. 

"He  throwed  you  off  right  into  the  dirt,  didn't  he,  Merton? 
Mer-tun,  didn't  he  throw  you  off  right  into  the  dirt?  " 

If  it  were  inevitable  he  wished  that  they  would  come  closer. 
He  would  even  have  taken  little  Woodrow  by  the  hand.  But 
they  kept  far  enough  back  of  him  to  require  that  their  voices 
should  be  raised.  Incessantly  the  pitiless  rain  fell  upon 

him "Mer-tun,  he  throwed  you  off  right  into  the  dirt, 

didn't  he,  Merton?" 

He  turned  out  of  the  alley  up  Spruce  Street.  The  Ransom 
children  lawlessly  followed,  forgetting  their  good  home,  their 
poor,  sick  mother  and  the  rules  she  had  laid  down  for  their 
Sabbath  recreation.  At  every  moment  the  shrill  cry  reached 
his  burning  ears,  "Mer-tun,  didn't  he  throw  you  off?"  The 
kiddies  appeared  to  believe  that  Merton  had  not  heard  them, 
but  they  were  patient.  Presently  he  would  hear  and  reas- 
sure them  that  he  had,  indeed,  been  thrown  off  right  into  the 
dirt. 

Now  he  began  to  meet  or  to  pass  early  churchgoers  who 
would  gaze  at  him  in  wonder  or  in  frank  criticism.  He  left 
the  sidewalk  and  sought  the  centre  of  the  road,  pretending 
that  out  there  he  could  better  search  for  a  valuable  lost  horse. 
The  Ransom  children  were  at  first  in  two  minds  about  follow- 
ing him,  but  they  soon  found  it  more  interesting  to  stay  on 
the  sidewalk.  They  could  pause  to  acquaint  the  churchgoers 
with  9.  matter  of  common  interest. 


WESTERN  STUFF  53 

"He  throwed  Merton  off  right  into  the  dirt." 

If  the  people  they  addressed  appeared  to  be  doubting 
this,  or  to  find  it  not  specific  enough,  they  would  call  ahead 
to  Merton  to  confirm  their  simple  tale.  With  rapt,  shining 
faces,  they  spread  the  glad  news,  though  hurrying  always 
to  keep  pace  with  the  figure  in  the  road. 

Spruce  Street  was  vacant  of  Dexter,  but  up  Elm  Street, 
slowly  cropping  the  wayside  herbage  as  he  went,  was  undoubt- 
edly Merton 's  good  old  pal.  He  quickened  his  pace.  Dexter 
seemed  to  divine  his  coming  and  broke  into  a  kittenish  gallop 
until  he  reached  the  Methodist  Church.  Here,  appearing 
to  believe  that  he  had  again  eluded  pursuit,  he  stopped  to 
graze  on  a  carefully  tended  square  of  grass  before  the  sacred 
edifice.  He  was  at  once  shooed  by  two  scandalized  old 
ladies,  but  paid  them  no  attention.  They  might  perhaps 
even  have  tickled  him,  for  this  was  the  best  grass  he  had 
found  since  leaving  home.  Other  churchgoers  paused  in 
consternation,  looking  expectantly  at  the  approaching 
Merton  Gill.  The  three  happy  children  who  came  up  with 
him  left  no  one  in  doubt  of  the  late  happening. 

Merton  was  still  the  artist.  He  saw  himself  approach 
Dexter,  vault  into  the  saddle,  put  spurs  to  the  beast,  and 
swiftly  disappear  down  the  street.  People  would  be  saying 
that  he  should  not  be  let  to  ride  so  fast  through  a  city  street. 
He  was  worse  than  Gus  Giddings.  But  he  saw  this  only 
with  his  artist's  eye.  In  sordid  fact  he  went  up  to  Dexter, 
seized  the  trailing  bridle  reins  and  jerked  savagely  upon 
them.  Back  over  the  trail  he  led  his  good  old  pal.  And  for 
other  later  churchgoers  there  were  the  shrill  voices  of  friendly 
children  to  tell  what  had  happened — to  appeal  confidently 
to  Merton,  vaguely  ahead  in  the  twilight,  to  confirm  their 
interesting  story. 

Dexter,  the  anarchist,  was  put  to  bed  without  his  good- 
night kiss.  Good  old  Pinto  had  done  his  pal  dirt.  Never 
again  would  he  be  given  a  part  in  Buck  Benson's  company. 
Across  the  alley  came  the  voices  of  tired,  happy  children, 
in  the  appeal  for  an  encore. 


54  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"Mer-tun,  please  let  him  do  it  to  you  again."  "Mer- 
tun,  please  let  him  do  it  to  you  again." 

And  to  the  back  porch  came  Mrs.  Gashwiler  to  say  it  was 
a  good  thing  he'd  got  that  clothesline  back,  and  came  her 
husband  wishing  to  be  told  what  outlandish  notion  Merton 
Gill  would  next  get  into  the  thing  he  called  his  head.  It 
was  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

Followed  a  week  of  strained  relations  with  the  Gashwiler 
household,  including  Dexter,  and  another  week  of  relations 
hardly  more  cordial.  But  thirty  dollars  was  added  to  the 
hoard  which  was  now  counted  almost  nightly.  And  the 
cruder  wits  of  the  village  had  made  rather  a  joke  of  Merton's 
adventure.  Some  were  tasteless  enough  to  rally  him  coarsely 
upon  the  crowded  street  or  at  the  post  office  while  he  awaited 
his  magazines. 

And  now  there  were  two  hundred  and  seventy-five  dollars 
to  put  him  forever  beyond  their  jibes.  He  carefully  re- 
hearsed a  scathing  speech  for  Gashwiler.  He  would  tell 
him  what  he  thought  of  him.  That  merchant  would  learn 
from  it  some  things  that  would  do  him  good  if  he  believed 
them,  but  probably  he  wouldn't  believe  them.  He  would 
also  see  that  he  had  done  his  faithful  employee  grave  injus- 
tices. And  he  would  be  left,  in  some  humiliation,  having 
found,  as  Merton  Gill  took  himself  forever  out  of  retail 
trade,  that  two  could  play  on  words  as  well  as  one.  It  was 
a  good  warm  speech,  and  its  author  knew  every  word 
of  it  from  mumbled  rehearsal  during  the  two  weeks,  at 
times  when  Gashwiler  merely  thought  he  was  being  queer 
again. 

At  last  came  the  day  when  he  decided  to  recite  it  in  full 
to  the  man  for  whom  it  had  been  composed.  He  confronted 
him,  accordingly,  at  a  dull  moment  on  the  third  Monday 
morning,  burning  with  his  message. 

He  looked  Gashwiler  firmly  in  the  eye  and  said  in  halting 
tones,  "Mr.  Gashwiler,  now,  I've  been  thinking  I'd  like  to 
go  West  for  a  while — to  California,  if  you  could  arrange  to 
let  me  off,  please." 


WESTERN  STUFF  55 

And  Mr.  Gashwiler  had  replied,  "Well,  now,  that  is  a  sur- 
prise. When  was  you  wishing  to  go,  Merton?" 

"Why,  I  would  be  much  obliged  if  you'd  let  me  get  off 
to-night  on  No.  4,  Mr.  Gashwiler,  and  I  know  you  can  get 
Spencer  Grant  to  take  my  place,  because  I  asked  him  yester- 
day." 

"Very  well,  Merton.  Send  Spencer  Grant  in  to  see  me, 
and  you  can  get  off  to-night.  I  hope  you'll  have  a  good 
time." 

"Of  course,  I  don't  know  how  long  I'll  be  gone.  I  may 
locate  out  there.  But  then  again " 

"That's  all  right,  Merton.  Any  time  you  come  back 
you  can  have  your  same  old  job.  You've  been  a  good  man, 
and  they  ain't  so  plenty  these  days." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Gashwiler." 

No.  4  was  made  to  stop  at  Simsbury  for  a  young  man  who 
was  presently  commanding  a  meal  in  the  palatial  diner,  and 
who  had,  before  this  meal  was  eaten,  looked  out  with  com- 
passion upon  two  Simsbury-like  hamlets  that  the  train  rushed 
by,  a  blur  of  small-towners  standing  on  their  depot  platforms 
to  envy  the  inmates  of  that  splendid  structure. 

At  last  it  was  Western  Stuff  and  no  fooling. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   WATCHER  AT  THE   GATE 

THE  street  leading  to  the  Holden  motion-picture 
studio,  considered  by  itself,  lacks  beauty.  Flanking 
it  for  most  of  the  way  from  the  boulevard  to  the 
studio  gate  are  vacant  lots  labelled  with  their  prices  and 
appeals  to  the  passer  to  buy  them.  Still  their  prices  are 
high  enough  to  mark  the  thoroughfare  as  one  out  of  the 
common,  and  it  is  further  distinguished  by  two  rows  of 
lofty  eucalyptus  trees.  These  have  a  real  feathery  beauty, 
and  are  perhaps  a  factor  in  the  seemingly  exorbitant  prices 
demanded  for  the  choice  bungalow  and  home  sites  they 
shade.  Save  for  a  casual  pioneer  bungalow  or  two,  there 
are  no  buildings  to  attract  the  notice  until  one  reaches 
a  high  fence  that  marks  the  beginning  of  the  Holden  lot. 
Back  of  this  fence  is  secreted  a  microcosmos,  a  world  in 
little,  where  one  may  encounter  strange  races  of  people  in 
their  native  dress  and  behold,  by  walking  a  block,  cities 
actually  apart  by  league  upon  league  of  the  earth's  sur- 
face and  separated  by  centuries  of  time. 

To  penetrate  this  city  of  many  cities,  and  this  actual 
present  of  the  remote  past,  one  must  be  of  a  certain  inner 
elect.  Hardly  may  one  enter  by  assuming  the  disguise  of 
a  native,  as  daring  explorers  have  sometimes  overcome 
the  difficulty  of  entering  other  strange  cities.  Its  gate, 
reached  after  passing  along  an  impressive  expanse  of  the 
reticent  fence,  is  watched  by  a  guardian.  He  is  a  stoatish 
man  of  middle  age,  not  neatly  dressed,  and  of  forbidding 
aspect.  His  face  is  ruthless,  with  a  very  knowing  cynicism. 

56 


THE  WATCHER  AT  THE  GATE  57 

He  is  there,  it  would  seem,  chiefly  to  keep  people  out  of 
the  delightful  city,  though  from  time  to  time  he  will  bow 
an  assent  or  wave  it  with  the  hand  clutching  his  evening 
newspaper  to  one  of  the  favoured  lawful  inmates,  who  will 
then  carelessly  saunter  or  drive  an  expensive  motor  car 
through  the  difficult  portal. 

Standing  across  the  street,  one  may  peer  through  this 
portal  into  an  avenue  of  the  forbidden  city.  There  is  an 
exciting  glimpse  of  greensward,  flowering  shrubbery,  roses, 
vines,  and  a  vista  of  the  ends  of  enormous  structures  painted 
yellow.  And  this  avenue  is  sprightly  with  the  passing 
of  enviable  persons  who  are  rightly  there,  some  in  alien 
garb,  some  in  the  duller  uniform  of  the  humble  artisan, 
some  in  the  pressed  and  garnished  trappings  of  rich  overlords. 

It  is  really  best  to  stand  across  the  street  for  this  clan- 
destine view  of  heart-shaking  delights.  If  you  stand  close 
to  the  gate  to  peer  past  the  bulky  shape  of  the  warder  he 
is  likely  to  turn  and  give  you  a  cold  look.  Further,  he  is 
averse  to  light  conversation,  being  always  morosely  ab- 
sorbed— yet  with  an  eye  ever  alert  for  intrusive  outlanders — 
in  his  evening  paper.  He  never  reads  a  morning  paper, 
but  has  some  means  of  obtaining  at  an  early  hour  each 
morning  a  pink  or  green  evening  paper  that  shrieks  with 
crimson  headlines.  Such  has  been  his  reading  through 
all  time,  and  this  may  have  been  an  element  in  shaping 
his  now  inveterate  hostility  toward  those  who  would  en- 
gage him  in  meaningless  talk.  Even  in  accepting  the  gift 
of  an  excellent  cigar  he  betrays  only  a  bored  condescension. 
There  is  no  relenting  of  countenance,  no  genial  relaxing  of 
an  ingrained  suspicion  toward  all  who  approach  him,  no 
cordiality,  in  short,  such  as  would  lead  you  to  believe  that 
he  might  be  glad  to  look  over  a  bunch  of  stills  taken  by 
the  most  artistic  photographer  in  all  Simsbury,  Illinois. 
So  you  let  him  severely  alone  after  a  bit,  and  go  to  stand 
across  the  street,  your  neatly  wrapped  art  studies  under 
your  arm,  and  leaning  against  the  trunk  of  a  eucalyptus  tree 
you  stare  brazenly  past  him  into  the  city  of  wonders. 


58  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

It  is  thus  we  first  observe  that  rising  young  screen  actor, 
Clifford  Armytage,  beginning  the  tenth  day  of  his  deter- 
mined effort  to  become  much  more  closely  identified  with 
screen  activities  than  hitherto.  Ten  days  of  waiting  out- 
side the  guarded  gate  had  been  his,  but  no  other  ten  days 
of  his  life  had  seemed  so  eventful  or  passed  so  swiftly.  For 
at  last  he  stood  before  his  goal,  had  actually  fastened  his 
eyes  upon  so  much  of  it  as  might  be  seen  through  its  gate. 
Never  had  he  achieved  so  much  downright  actuality. 

Back  in  Simsbury  on  a  Sunday  morning  he  had  often 
strolled  over  to  the  depot  at  early  train  time  for  a  sight  of 
the  two  metal  containers  housing  the  films  shown  at  the 
Bijou  Palace  the  day  before.  They  would  be  on  the  plat- 
form, pasted  over  with  express  labels.  He  would  stand 
by  them,  even  touch  them,  examine  the  padlocks,  turn 
them  over,  heft  them;  actually  hold  within  his  grasp  the 
film  wraith  of  Beulah  Baxter  in  a  terrific  installment  of  The 
Hazards  of  Hortense.  Those  metal  containers  imprisoned 
so  much  of  beauty,  of  daring,  of  young  love  striving  against 
adverse  currents — held  the  triumphant  fruiting  of  Miss 
Baxter's  toil  and  struggle  and  sacrifice  to  give  the  public 
something  better  and  finer.  Often  he  had  caressed  the 
crude  metal  with  a  reverent  hand,  as  if  his  wonder  woman 
herself  stood  there  to  receive  his  homage. 

That  was  actuality,  in  a  way.  But  here  it  was  in  full 
measure,  without  mental  subterfuge  or  vain  imaginings. 
Had  he  not  beheld  from  this  post — he  was  pretty  sure  he 
had — Miss  Baxter  herself,  swathed  in  costly  furs,  drive  a 
robin's-egg-blue  roadster  through  the  gate  without  even 
a  nod  to  the  warder?  Indeed,  that  one  glimpse  of  reality 
had  been  worth  his  ten  days  of  waiting — worth  all  his 
watching  of  the  gate  and  its  keeper  until  he  knew  every 
dent  in  the  keeper's  derby  hat,  every  bristle  in  his  unkempt 
mustache,  every  wrinkle  of  his  inferior  raiment,  and  every 
pocket  from  which  throughout  the  day  he  would  vainly 
draw  matches  to  relight  an  apparently  fireproof  cigar. 
Surely  waiting  thus  rewarded  could  not  be  called  barren. 


THE  WATCHER  AT  THE  GATE  59 

When  he  grew  tired  of  standing  he  could  cross  the  street 
and  rest  on  a  low  bench  that  encircled  one  of  the  eucalyptus 
trees.  Here  were  other  waiters  without  the  pale,  usually 
men  of  strongly  marked  features,  with  a  tendency  to  extremes 
in  stature  or  hair  or  beards  or  noses,  and  not  conspicu- 
ously neat  in  attire.  These,  he  discovered,  were  extras 
awaiting  employment,  many  of  them  Mexicans  or  strange- 
appearing  mongrels,  with  a  sprinkling  of  Negroes.  Often 
he  could  have  recruited  there  a  band  of  outlaws  for  desper- 
ate deeds  over  the  border.  He  did  not  fraternize  with  these 
waifs,  feeling  that  his  was  another  plane. 

He  had  spent  three  days  thus  about  the  studio  gate  when 
he  learned  of  the  existence  of  another  entrance.  This  was 
a  door  almost  opposite  the  bench.  He  ventured  through 
it  and  discovered  a  bare  room  with  a  wooden  seat  running 
about  its  sides.  In  a  partition  opposite  the  entrance  was 
a  small  window  and  over  it  the  words  " Casting  Director." 
One  of  the  two  other  doors  led  to  the  interior,  and  through 
this  he  observed  pass  many  of  the  chosen.  Another  door 
led  to  the  office  of  the  casting  director,  glimpses  of  which 
could  be  obtained  through  the  little  window. 

The  waiting  room  itself  was  not  only  bare  as  to  floor  and 
walls,  but  was  bleak  and  inhospitable  in  its  general  effect. 
The  wooden  seat  was  uncomfortable,  and  those  who  sat 
upon  it  along  the  dull-toned  walls  appeared  depressed  and 
unhopeful,  especially  after  they  had  braved  a  talk  through 
the  little  window  with  someone  who  seemed  always  to  be 
saying,  "No,  nothing  to-day.  Yes,  perhaps  next  week.  I 
have  your  address."  When  the  aspirants  were  women, 
as  they  mostly  were,  the  someone  back  of  the  window 
would  add  "dear"  to  the  speech:  "No,  nothing  to-day, 
dear." 

There  seemed  never  to  be  anything  to-day,  and  Clifford 
Armytage  spent  very  little  of  his  waiting  time  in  this  room. 
It  made  him  uncomfortable  to  be  stared  at  by  other  ap- 
plicants, whether  they  stared  casually,  incuriously,  or 
whether  they  seemed  to  appraise  him  disparagingly,  as  if 


60  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

telling  him  frankly  that  for  him  there  would  never  be  any- 
thing to-day. 

Then  he  saw  that  he,  too,  must  undergo  that  encounter 
at  the  little  window.  Too  apparently  he  was  not  getting 
anywhere  by  loitering  about  outside.  It  was  exciting,  but 
the  producers  would  hardly  look  there  for  new  talent. 

He  chose  a  moment  for  this  encounter  when  the  waiting 
room  was  vacant,  not  caring  to  be  stared  at  when  he  took 
this  first  step  in  forming  a  connection  that  was  to  be  no- 
table in  screen  annals.  He  approached  the  window,  bent 
his  head,  and  encountered  the  gaze  of  a  small,  comely  woman 
with  warm  brown  eyes,  neat  reddish  hair,  and  a  quick  manner. 
The  gaze  was  shrewd;  it  seemed  to  read  all  that  was  needed 
to  be  known  of  this  new  candidate. 

"Yes?"  said  the  woman. 

She  looked  tired  and  very  businesslike,  but  her  manner 
was  not  unkind.  The  novice  was  at  once  reassured.  He 
was  presently  explaining  to  her  that  he  wished  to  act  in 
the  pictures  at  this  particular  studio.  No,  he  had  not  had 
much  experience;  that  is,  you  could  hardly  call  it  experi- 
ence in  actual  acting,  but  he  had  finished  a  course  of  study 
and  had  a  diploma  from  the  General  Film  Production 
Company  of  Stebbinsville,  Arkansas,  certifying  him  to  be 
a  competent  screen  actor.  And  of  course  he  would  not  at 
first  expect  a  big  part.  He  would  be  glad  to  take  a  small 
part  to  begin  with — almost  any  small  part  until  he  could 
familiarize  himself  with  studio  conditions.  And  here  was 
a  bunch  of  stills  that  would  give  any  one  an  idea  of  the 
range  of  parts  he  was  prepared  to  play,  society  parts  in  a 
full-dress  suit,  or  soldier  parts  in  a  trench  coat  and  lieu- 
tenant's cap,  or  juveniles  in  the  natty  suit  with  the  belted 
coat,  and  in  the  storm-king  model  belted  overcoat.  And 
of  course  Western  stuff — these  would  give  an  idea  of  what 
he  could  do — cowboy  outfit  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  chaps 
and  spurs  and  guns  and  so  forth.  And  he  was  prepared 
to  work  hard  and  struggle  and  sacrifice  in  order  to  give 
the  public  something  better  and  finer,  and  would  it  be 


THE  WATCHER  AT  THE  GATE  61 

possible  to  secure  some  small  part  at  once?  Was  a  good 
all-round  actor  by  any  chance  at  that  moment  needed  in 
the  company  of  Miss  Beulah  Baxter,  because  he  would 
especially  like  such  a  part,  and  he  would  be  ready  to  start 
to  work  at  any  time — to-morrow,  or  even  to-day. 

The  tired  little  woman  beyond  the  opening  listened 
patiently  to  this,  interrupting  several  times  to  say  over  an 
insistent  telephone,  "No,  nothing  to-day,  dear."  She 
looked  at  the  stills  with  evident  interest  and  curiously 
studied  the  face  of  the  speaker  as  she  listened.  She  smiled 
wearily  when  he  was  through  and  spoke  briskly. 

"Now,  I'll  tell  you,  son;  all  that  is  very  nice,  but  you 
haven't  had  a  lick  of  real  experience  yet,  have  you? — and 
things  are  pretty  quiet  on  the  lot  just  now.  To-day  there 
are  only  two  companies  shooting.  So  you  couldn't  get 
anything  to-day  or  to-morrow  or  probably  for  a  good  many 
days  after  that,  and  it  won't  be  much  when  you  get  it. 
You  may  get  on  as  an  extra  after  a  while  when  some  of 
the  other  companies  start  shooting,  but  I  can't  promise 
anything,  you  understand.  What  you  do  now — leave  me 
your  name  and  address  and  telephone  number." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  the  applicant,  and  supplied  these  data. 

"Clifford  Armytage!"  exclaimed  the  woman.  "I'll  say 
that's  some  warm  name!" 

"Well,  you  see" — he  paused,  but  resolved  to  confide 
freely  in  this  friendly  seeming  person — "you  see,  I  picked 
that  out  for  a  good  name  to  act  under.  It  sounds  good, 
doesn't  it?  And  my  own  right  name  is  only  Merton  Gill, 
so  I  thought  I'd  better  have  something  that  sounded  a 
little  more — well,  you  know." 

"Sure!"  said  the  woman.  "All  right,  have  any  name 
you  want;  but  I  think  I'll  call  you  Merton  when  you  come 
again.  You  needn't  act  with  me,  you  know.  Now,  let's 
see — name,  age,  height,  good  general  wardrobe,  house  ad- 
dress, telephone  number — oh,  yes,  tell  me  where  I  can  find 
vou  during  the  day." 

"Right   out   here,"   he   replied   firmly.     "I'm   going   to 


62  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

stick  to  this  studio  and  not  go  near  any  of  the  others.  If 
I'm  not  in  this  room  I'll  be  just  outside  there,  on  that  bench 
around  the  tree,  or  just  across  the  street  where  you  can 
see  through  the  gate  and  watch  the  people  go  through." 

"Say!"  Again  the  woman  searched  his  face  and  broke 
into  her  friendly  smile.  "Say,  you're  a  real  nut,  aren't 
you?  How'd  you  ever  get  this  way?" 

And  again  he  was  talking,  telling  now  of  his  past  and  his 
struggles  to  educate  himself  as  a  screen  actor — one  of  the 
best.  He  spoke  of  Simsbury  and  Gashwiler  and  of  Lowell 
Hardy  who  took  his  stills,  and  of  Tessie  Kearns,  whose 
sympathy  and  advice  had  done  so  much  to  encourage  him. 
The  woman  was  joyously  attentive.  Now  she  did  more 
than  smile.  She  laughed  at  intervals  throughout  the 
narrative,  though  her  laughter  seemed  entirely  sympa- 
thetic and  in  no  way  daunted  the  speaker. 

"Well,  Merton,  you're  a  funny  one — I'll  say  that.  You're 
so  kind  of  ignorant  and  appealing.  And  you  say  this  Bug- 
halter  or  Gigwater  or  whatever  his  name  is  will  take  you 
back  into  the  store  any  time?  Well,  that's  a  good  thing 
to  remember,  because  the  picture  game  is  a  hard  game.  I 
wouldn't  discourage  a  nice  clean  boy  like  you  for  the  world, 
but  there  are  a  lot  of  people  in  pictures  right  now  that  would 
prefer  a  steady  job  like  that  one  you  left." 

"It's  Gashwiler — that  name." 

"Oh,  all  right,  just  so  you  don't  forget  it  and  forget  the 
address." 

The  new  applicant  warmly  reassured  her. 

"I  wouldn't  be  likely  to  forget  that,  after  living  there 
all  these  years." 

When  he  left  the  window  the  woman  was  again  saying 
into  the  telephone,  "No,  dear,  nothing  to-day.  I'm  sorry." 

It  was  that  night  he  wrote  to  Tessie  Kearns : 

DEAR  FRIEND  TESSIE: 

Well,  Tessie,  here  I  am  safe  and  sound  in  Hollywood  after  a  long 
ride  on  the  cars  that  went  through  many  strange  and  interesting 


THE  WATCHER  AT  THE  GATE  63 

cities  and  different  parts  of  the  country,  and  I  guess  by  this  time 
you  must  have  thought  I  was  forgetting  my  old  friends  back  in  Sims- 
bury;  but  not  so,  I  can  assure  you,  for  I  will  never  forget  our  long 
talks  together  and  how  you  cheered  me  up  often  when  the  sacrifice 
and  struggle  seemed  more  than  any  man  could  bear.  But  now  I 
feel  repaid  for  all  that  sacrifice  and  struggle,  for  I  am  here  where  the 
pictures  are  made,  and  soon  I  will  be  acting  different  parts  in  them, 
though  things  are  quiet  on  the  lot  now  with  only  two  companies 
shooting  to-day;  but  more  companies  will  be  shooting  in  a  few  days 
more  and  then  will  come  the  great  opportunity  for  me  as  soon  as  I 
get  known,  and  my  different  capabilities,  and  what  I  can  do  and 
everything. 

I  had  a  long  talk  to-day  with  the  lady  out  in  front  that  hires  the 
actors,  and  she  was  very  friendly,  but  said  it  might  be  quite  some 
time,  because  only  two  companies  on  the  lot  were  shooting  to-day, 
and  she  said  if  Gashwiler  had  promised  to  keep  my  old  job  for  me 
to  be  sure  and  not  forget  his  address,  and  it  was  laughable  that  she 
should  say  such  a  thing,  because  I  would  not  be  liable  to  forget  his 
address  when  I  lived  there  so  long.  She  must  have  thought  I  was 
very  forgetful,  to  forget  that  address. 

There  is  some  great  scenery  around  this  place,  including  many 
of  the  Rocky  Mtns.  etc.  that  make  it  look  beautiful,  and  the  city  of 
Los  Angeles  is  bigger  than  Peoria.  I  am  quite  some  distance  out 
of  the  centre  of  town,  and  I  have  a  nice  furnished  room  about  a  mile 
from  the  Holden  studios,  where  I  will  be  hired  after  a  few  more 
companies  get  to  shooting  on  the  lot.  There  is  an  electric  iron  in 
the  kitchen  where  one  can  press  then*  clothes.  And  my  furnished 
room  is  in  the  house  of  a  Los  Angeles  society  woman  and  her  husband 
who  came  here  from  Iowa.  Their  little  house  with  flowers  in  front 
of  iL  is  called  a  bungalow.  The  husband,  Mr.  Patterson,  had  a  farm 
in  Iowa,  six  miles  out  from  Cedar  Falls,  and  he  cares  little  for 
society;  but  the  wife  goes  into  society  all  the  time,  as  there  is  hardly  a 
day  just  now  that  some  society  does  not  have  its  picnic,  and  one  day 
it  will  be  the  Kansas  Society  picnic  and  the  next  day  it  will  be  the 
Michigan  Society  having  a  picnic,  or  some  other  state,  and  of  course 
the  Iowa  Society  that  has  the  biggest  picnic  of  all,  and  Mr.  Patterson 
says  his  wife  can  go  to  all  these  society  functions  if  she  wants,  but 
he  does  not  care  much  for  society,  and  he  is  thinking  of  buying  a 
half  interest  in  a  good  soft-drink  place  just  to  pass  the  time  away, 
as  he  says  after  the  busy  life  he  has  led  he  needs  something  to  keep 
him  busy,  but  his  wife  thinks  only  of  society. 


64  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

I  take  my  meals  out  at  different  places,  especially  at  drug  stores. 
I  guess  you  would  be  surprised  to  see  these  drug  stores  where  you  can 
go  in  and  sit  at  the  soda  counter  and  order  your  coffee  and  sand- 
wiches and  custard  pie  and  eat  them  right  there  in  the  drug  store, 
but  there  are  other  places,  too,  like  cafeterias,  where  you  put  your 
dishes  on  a  tray  and  carry  it  to  your  own  table.  It  is  all  quite  differ- 
ent from  Simsbury,  and  I  have  seen  oranges  growing  on  the  trees, 
and  there  are  palm  trees,  and  it  does  not  snow  here;  but  the  grass  is 
green  and  the  flowers  bloom  right  through  the  winter,  which  makes 
it  very  attractive  with  the  Rocky  Mtns.  standing  up  in  the  distance, 
etc. 

Well,  Tessie,  you  must  excuse  this  long  letter  from  your  old 
friend,  and  write  me  if  any  company  has  accepted  Passion's  Perils 
and  I  might  have  a  chance  to  act  in  that  some  day,  and  I  will  let  you 
know  when  my  first  picture  is  released  and  the  title  of  it  so  you  can 
watch  out  for  it  when  it  comes  to  the  Bijou  Palace.  I  often  think 
of  the  old  town,  and  would  like  to  have  a  chat  with  you  and  my 
other  old  friends,  but  I  am  not  homesick,  only  sometimes  I  would 
like  to  be  back  there,  as  there  are  not  many  people  to  chat  with  here 
and  one  would  almost  be  lonesome  sometimes  if  they  could  not  be 
at  the  studio.  But  I  must  remember  that  work  and  struggle  and 
sacrifice  are  necessary  to  give  the  public  something  better  and  finer 
and  become  a  good  screen  actor.  So  no  more  at  present,  from  your 
old  friend,  and  address  Clifford  Armytage  at  above  number,  as  I 
am  going  by  my  stage  name,  though  the  lady  at  the  Holden  lot  said 
she  liked  my  old  name  better  and  called  me  that,  and  it  sounded 
pretty  good,  as  I  have  not  got  used  to  the  stage  name  yet. 

He  felt  better  after  this  chat  with  his  old  friend,  and  the 
following  morning  he  pressed  a  suit  in  the  Patterson  kit- 
chen and  resumed  his  vigil  outside  the  gate.  But  now 
from  time  to  time,  at  least  twice  a  day,  he  could  break  the 
monotony  of  this  by  a  call  at  the  little  window. 

Sometimes  the  woman  beyond  it  would  be  engrossed 
with  the  telephone  and  would  merely  look  at  him  to  shake 
her  head.  At  others,  the  telephone  being  still,  she  would 
engage  him  in  friendly  talk.  She  seemed  to  like  him  as  an 
occasional  caller,  but  she  remained  smilingly  skeptical 
about  his  immediate  success  in  the  pictures.  Again  and 


THE  WATCHER  AT  THE  GATE  65 

again  she  urged  him  not  to  forget  the  address  of  Giggen- 
holder  or  Gooshswamp  or  whoever  it  might  be  that  was 
holding  a  good  job  for  him.  He  never  failed  to  remind  her 
that  the  name  was  Gashwiler,  and  that  he  could  not  pos- 
sibly forget  the  address  because  he  had  lived  at  Simsbury  a 
long  time.  This  always  seemed  to  brighten  the  woman's 
day.  It  puzzled  him  to  note  that  for  some  reason  his 
earnest  assurance  pleased  her. 

As  the  days  of  waiting  passed  he  began  to  distinguish 
individuals  among  the  people  who  went  through  the  little 
outer  room  or  sat  patiently  around  its  walls  on  the  hard 
bench,  waiting  like  himself  for  more  companies  to  start 
shooting.  Among  the  important-looking  men  that  passed 
through  would  be  actors  that  were  now  reaping  the  reward 
of  their  struggle  and  sacrifice;  actors  whom  he  thrilled  to 
recognize  as  old  screen  friends.  These  would  saunter  in 
with  an  air  of  fine  leisure,  and  their  manner  of  careless  but 
elegant  dress  would  be  keenly  noted  by  Merton.  Then 
there  were  directors.  These  were  often  less  scrupulously 
attired  and  seemed  always  to  be  solving  knotty  problems. 
They  passed  hurriedly  on,  brows  drawn  in  perplexity. 
They  were  very  busy  persons.  Those  on  the  bench  re- 
garded them  with  deep  respect  and  stiffened  to  attention 
as  they  passed,  but  they  were  never  observed  by  these 
great  ones. 

The  waiting  ones  were  of  all  ages;  mostly  women,  with 
but  a  sprinkling  of  men.  Many  of  the  women  were  young 
or  youngish,  and  of  rare  beauty,  so  Merton  Gill  thought. 
Others  were  elderly  or  old,  and  a  few  would  be  accompanied 
by  children,  often  so  young  that  they  must  be  held  on 
laps.  They,  too,  waited  with  round  eyes  and  in  perfect 
decorum  for  a  chance  to  act.  Sometimes  the  little  window 
would  be  pushed  open  and  a  woman  beckoned  from  the 
bench.  Some  of  them  greeted  the  casting  director  as  an 
old  friend  and  were  still  gay  when  told  that  there  was 
nothing  to-day.  Others  seemed  to  dread  being  told  this, 
and  would  wait  on  without  daring  an  inquiry. 


66  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

Sometimes  there  would  be  a  little  flurry  of  actual  business. 
Four  society  women  would  be  needed  for  SL  bridge  table 
at  8:30  the  next  morning  on  Stage  Number  Five.  The 
casting  director  seemed  to  know  the  wardrobe  of  each 
of  the  waiters,  and  would  select  the  four  quickly.  The 
gowns  must  be  smart — it  was  at  the  country  house  of  a 
rich  New  Yorker — and  jewels  and  furs  were  not  to  be  for- 
gotten. There  might  be  two  days'  work.  The  four  for- 
tunate ladies  would  depart  with  cheerful  smiles.  The 
remaining  waiters  settled  on  the  bench,  hoping  against 
hope  for  another  call. 

Among  the  waiting-room  hopefuls  Merton  had  come  to 
know  by  sight  the  Montague  family.  This  consisted  of  a 
handsome  elderly  gentleman  of  most  impressive  manner, 
his  wife,  a  portly  woman  of  middle  age,  also  possessing  an 
impressive  manner,  and  a  daughter.  Mr.  Montague  al- 
ways removed  his  hat  in  the  waiting  room,  uncovering  an 
abundant  cluster  of  iron-gray  curls  above  a  noble  brow. 
About  him  there  seemed  ever  to  linger  a  faint  spicy  aroma 
of  strong  drink,  and  he  would  talk  freely  to  those  sharing 
the  bench  with  him.  His  voice  was  full  and  rich  hi  tone, 
and  his  speech,  deliberate  and  precise,  more  than  hinted 
that  he  had  once  been  an  ornament  of  the  speaking  stage. 
His  wife,  also,  was  friendly  of  manner,  and  spoke  in  a  deep 
contralto  somewhat  roughened  by  wear  but  still  notable. 

The  daughter  Merton  did  not  like.  She  was  not  unat- 
tractive in  appearance,  though  her  features  were  far  off 
the  screen-heroine  model,  her  nose  being  too  short,  her 
mouth  too  large,  her  cheekbones  too  prominent,  and  her 
chin  too  square.  Indeed,  she  resembled  too  closely  her 
father,  who,  as  a  man,  could  carry  such  things  more  be- 
comingly. She  was  a  slangy  chit,  much  too  free  and  easy 
in  her  ways,  Merton  considered,  and  revealing  a  self- 
confidence  that  amounted  almost  to  impudence.  Further, 
her  cheeks  were  brown,  her  brief  nose  freckled,  and  she  did 
not  take  the  pains  with  her  face  that  most  of  the  beautiful 
young  women  who  waited  there  had  so  obviously  taken. 


THE  WATCHER  AT  THE  GATE  67 

She  was  a  harum-scarum  baggage  with  no  proper  respect 
for  any  one,  he  decided,  especially  after  the  day  she  had  so 
rudely  accosted  one  of  the  passing  directors.  He  was  a 
more  than  usually  absorbed  director,  and  with  drawn 
brows  would  have  gone  unseeing  through  the  waiting  room 
when  the  girl  hailed  him. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Henshaw,  one  moment  please!" 

He  glanced  up  in  some  annoyance,  pausing  with  his 
hand  to  the  door  that  led  on  to  his  proper  realm. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Miss  Montague!  Well,  what  is  it?  I'm 
very,  very  busy." 

"Well,  it's  something  I  wanted  to  ask  you."  She  quickly 
crossed  the  room  to  stand  by  him,  tenderly  flecking  a  bit 
of  dust  from  his  coat  sleeve  as  she  began,  "Say,  listen,  Mr. 
Henshaw:  Do  you  think  beauty  is  a  curse  to  a  poor  girl?" 

Mr.  Henshaw  scowled  down  into  the  eyes  so  confidingly 
lifted  to  his. 

"That's  something  you  won't  ever  have  to  worry  about," 
he  snapped,  and  was  gone,  his  brows  again  drawn  in  per- 
plexity over  his  work. 

"You're  not  angry  with  poor  little  me,  are  you,  Mr. 
Henshaw?" 

The  girl  called  this  after  him  and  listened,  but  no  reply 
came  from  back  of  the  partition. 

Mrs.  Montague,  from  the  bench,  rebuked  her  daughter. 

"Say,  what  do  you  think  that  kidding  stuff  will  get 
you?  Don't  you  want  to  work  for  him  any  more?" 

The  girl  turned  pleading  eyes  upon  her  mother. 

"I  think  he  might  have  answered  a  simple  question," 
said  she. 

This  was  all  distasteful  to  Merton  Gill.  The  girl  might, 
indeed,  have  deserved  an  answer  to  her  simple  question, 
but  why  need  she  ask  it  of  so  busy  a  man?  He  felt  that 
Mr.  Henshaw's  rebuke  was  well  merited,  for  her  own  beauty 
was  surely  not  excessive. 

Her  father,  from  the  bench,  likewise  admonished  her. 

"You  are  sadly  prone  to  a  spirit  of  banter,"  he  declared, 


68  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"though  I  admit  that  the  so-called  art  of  the  motion  picture 
is  not  to  be  regarded  too  seriously.  It  was  not  like  that 
in  my  day.  Then  an  actor  had  to  be  an  artist;  there  was  no 
position  for  the  little  he-doll  whippersnapper  who  draws 
the  big  money  to-day  and  is  ignorant  of  even  the  rudiments 
of  the  actor's  profession." 

He  allowed  his  glance  to  rest  perceptibly  upon  Merton 
Gill,  who  felt  uncomfortable. 

"We  were  with  Looey  James  five  years,"  confided  Mrs. 
Montague  to  her  neighbours.  "A  hall  show,  of  course — 
hadn't  heard  of  movies  then — doing  Virginius  and  Julius 
Csesar  and  such  classics,  and  then  starting  out  with  The 
Two  Orphans  for  a  short  season.  We  were  a  knock-out,  I'll 
say  that.  I'll  never  forget  the  night  we  opened  the  new 
opera  house  at  Akron.  They  had  to  put  the  orchestra 
under  the  stage." 

"And  the  so-called  art  of  the  moving  picture  robs  us  of 
our  little  meed  of  applause,"  broke  in  her  husband.  "I 
shall  never  forget  a  remark  of  the  late  Lawrence  Barrett 
to  me  after  a  performance  of  Richelieu  in  which  he  had 
fairly  outdone  himself.  'Montague,  my  lad,'  said  he  'we 
may  work  for  the  money,  but  we  play  for  the  applause.' 
But  now  our  finest  bits  must  go  in  silence,  or  perhaps  be 
interrupted  by  a  so-called  director  who  arrogates  to  him- 
self the  right  to  instill  into  us  the  rudiments  of  a  profession 
in  which  we  had  grounded  ourselves  ere  yet  he  was  out  of 
leading  strings.  Too  often,  naturally,  the  results  are  dis- 
couraging." 

The  unabashed  girl  was  meantime  having  sprightly  talk 
with  the  casting  director,  whom  she  had  hailed  through  the 
window  as  Countess.  Merton,  somewhat  startled,  wondered 
if  the  little  woman  could  indeed  be  of  the  nobility. 

"Hello,  Countess!  Say,  listen,  can  you  give  the  camera 
a  little  peek  at  me  to-day,  or  at  pa  or  ma?  'No,  nothing 
to-day,  dear.' '  She  had  imitated  the  little  woman's  voice 
in  her  accustomed  reply.  "Well,  I  didn't  think  there 
would  be.  I  just  thought  I'd  ask.  You  ain't  mad,  are  you? 


THE  WATCHER  AT  THE  GATE  69 

I  could  have  gone  on  in  a  harem  tank  scene  over  at  the 
Bigart  place,  but  they  wanted  me  to  dress  the  same  as  a 
fish,  and  a  young  girl's  got  to  draw  the  line  somewhere. 
Besides,  I  don't  like  that  Hugo  over  there  so  much.  He 
hates  to  part  with  anything  like  money,  and  he'll  gyp  you 
if  he  can.  Say,  I'll  bet  he  couldn't  play  an  honest  game  of 
solitaire.  How'd  you  like  my  hair  this  way?  Like  it,  eh? 
That's  good.  And  me  having  the  only  freckles  left  in  all 
Hollywood.  Ain't  I  the  little  prairie  flower,  growing  wilder 
every  hour? 

"Say,  on  the  level,  pa  needs  work.  These  days  when 
he's  idle  he  mostly  sticks  home  and  tries  out  new  ways  to 
make  prime  old  Kentucky  sour  mash  in  eight  hours.  If  he 
don't  quit  he  is  going  to  find  himself  seeing  some  moving 
pictures  that  no  one  else  can.  And  he's  all  worried  up 
about  his  hair  going  off  on  top,  and  trying  new  hair  restor- 
ers. You  know  his  latest?  Well,  he  goes  over  to  the  Selig 
place  one  day  and  watches  horse  meat  fed  to  the  liocs  and 
says  to  himself  that  horses  have  plenty  of  hair,  and  it  must 
be  the  fat  under  the  skin  that  makes  it  grow,  so  he  begs  for 
a  hunk  of  horse  from  just  under  the  mane  and  he's  rubbing 
that  on.  You  can't  tell  what  he'll  bring  home  next.  The 
old  boy  still  believes  you  can  raise  hair  from  the  dead. 
Do  you  want  some  new  stills  of  me?  I  got  a  new  one  yes- 
terday that  shows  my  other  expression.  Well,  so  long, 
Countess." 

The  creature  turned  to  her  parents. 

"Let's  be  on  our  way,  old  dears.  This  place  is  dead,  but 
the  Countess  says  they'll  soon  be  shooting  some  tenement- 
house  stuff  up  at  the  Consolidated.  Maybe  there'll  be 
something  in  it  for  someone.  We  might  as  well  have  a 
look-in." 

Merton  felt  relieved  when  the  Montague  family  went  out, 
the  girl  in  the  lead.  He  approved  of  the  fine  old  father,  but 
the  daughter  lacked  dignity  in  speech  and  manner.  You 
couldn't  tell  what  she  might  say  next. 

The  Montagues  were  often  there,  sometimes  in  full,  some- 


70  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

times  represented  by  but  one  of  their  number.  Once  Mrs. 
Montague  was  told  to  be  on  Stage  Six  the  next  morning  at 
8:30  to  attend  a  swell  reception. 

"Wear  the  gray  georgette,  dearie,"  said  the  casting  direc- 
tor, "and  your  big  pearls  and  the  lorgnon." 

"Not  forgetting  the  gold  cigarette  case  and  the  chinchilla 
neck  piece/*  said  Mrs.  Montague.  "The  spare  parts  will 
all  be  there,  Countess,  and  thanks  for  the  word." 

The  elder  Montague  on  the  occasion  of  his  calls  often  found 
time  to  regale  those  present  with  anecdotes  of  Lawrence 
Barrett. 

"A  fine  artist  in  his  day,  sir;  none  finer  ever  appeared 
in  a  hall  show." 

And  always  about  his  once  superb  frock  coat  clung  the 
scent  of  forbidden  beverages.  On  one  such  day  he  appeared 
with  an  untidy  sprouting  of  beard,  accompanied  by  the 
talkative  daughter. 

"Pa's  landed  a  part,"  she  explained  through  the  little 
window.  "It's  one  of  those  we-uns  mountaineer  plays  with 
revenooers  and  feuds;  one  of  those  plays  where  the  city 
chap  don't  treat  our  Nell  right — you  know.  And  they  won't 
stand  for  the  cr£pe  hair,  so  pop  has  got  to  raise  a  brush  and 
he's  mad.  But  it  ought  to  give  him  a  month  or  so,  and  after 
that  he  may  be  able  to  peddle  the  brush  again;  you  can 
never  tell  in  this  business,  can  you,  Countess?" 

"It's  most  annoying,"  the  old  gentleman  explained  to 
the  bench  occupants.  "In  the  true  art  of  the  speaking  stage 
an  artificial  beard  was  considered  above  reproach.  Now- 
adays one  must  descend  to  mere  physical  means  if  one  is  to 
be  thought  worthy." 


CHAPTER  V 

A  BREACH   IN  THE  CITY  WALLS 

DURING  these  weeks  of  waiting  outside  the  gate  the 
little  woman  beyond  the  window  had  continued  to  be 
friendly  but  not  encouraging  to  the  aspirant  for 
screen  honours  late  of  Simsbury,  Illinois.  For  three  weeks 
had  he  waited  faithfully,  always  within  call,  struggling  and 
sacrificing  to  give  the  public  something  better  and  finer, 
and  not  once  had  he  so  much  as  crossed  the  line  that  led 
to  his  goal. 

Then  on  a  Monday  morning  he  found  the  waiting-room 
empty  and  his  friend  beyond  the  window  suffering  the  pangs 
of  headache.  "It  gets  me  something  fierce  right  through 
here,"  she  confided  to  him,  placing  her  finger-tips  to  her 
temples. 

"Ever  use  Eezo  Pain  Wafers?  "  he  demanded  in  quick  sym- 
pathy. She  looked  at  him  hopefully. 

"Never  heard  of  'em." 

"Let  me  get  you  some." 

"You  dear  thing,  fly  to  it!" 

He  was  gone  while  she  reached  for  her  purse,  hurrying 
along  the  eucalyptus-lined  street  of  choice  home  sites  to  the 
nearest  drug  store.  He  was  fearing  someone  else  might 
bring  the  little  woman  another  remedy;  even  that  her  head- 
ache might  go  before  he  returned  with  his.  But  he  found 
her  still  suffering. 

"Here  they  are."  He  was  breathless.  "You  take  a 
couple  now  and  a  couple  more  in  half  an  hour  if  the  ache 
hasn't  stopped." 

"Bless  your  heart!  Come  around  inside."  He  was 

71 


72  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

through  the  door  and  in  the  dimly  lit  little  office  behind  that 
secretive  partition.  "And  here's  something  else,'*  he  con- 
tinued. "It's  a  menthol  pencil  and  you  take  this  cap  off — 
see? — and  rub  your  forehead  with  it.  It'll  be  a  help."  She 
swallowed  two  of  the  magic  wafers  with  the  aid  of  water  from 
the  cooler,  and  applied  the  menthol. 

"You're  a  dear,"  she  said,  patting  his  sleeve.  "I  feel 
better  already.  Sometimes  these  things  come  on  me  and 
stay  all  day."  She  was  still  applying  the  menthol  to  throbbing 
temples.  "Say,  don't  you  get  tired  hanging  around  outside 
there?  Fow'd  you  like  to  go  in  and  look  around  the  lot? 
Would  you  like  that?" 

Would  he!  "Thanks!"  He  managed  it  without  choking. 
"If  I  wouldn't  be  in  the  way." 

"You  won't.  Go  on — amuse  yourself."  The  telephone 
rang.  Still  applying  the  menthol  she  held  the  receiver  to 
her  ear.  "No,  nothing  to-day,  dear.  Say,  Marie,  did  you 
ever  take  Eezo  Pain  Wafers  for  a  headache?  Keep  'em  in 
mind — they're  great.  Yes,  I'll  let  you  know  if  anything 
breaks.  Goo '-by,  dear." 

Merton  Gill  hurried  through  a  narrow  corridor  past  offices 
where  typewriters  clicked  and  burst  from  gloom  into  the 
dazzling  light  of  the  Holden  lot.  He  paused  on  the  steps  to 
reassure  himself  that  the  great  adventure  was  genuine.  There 
was  the  full  stretch  of  greensward  of  which  only  an  edge 
had  shown  as  he  looked  through  the  gate.  There  were  the 
vast  yellow-brick,  glass-topped  structures  of  wThich  he  had 
seen  but  the  ends.  And  there  was  the  street  up  which  he 
had  looked  for  so  many  weeks,  flanked  by  rows  of  offices 
and  dressing  rooms,  and  lively  with  the  passing  of  many 
people.  He  drew  a  long  breath  and  became  calculating. 
He  must  see  everything  and  see  it  methodically.  He  even 
went  now  along  the  asphalt  walk  to  the  corner  of  the  office 
building  from  which  he  had  issued  for  the  privilege  of  looking 
back  at  the  gate  through  which  he  had  so  often  yearningly 
stared  from  across  the  street. 

Now  he  was  securely  inside  looking  out.     The  watchman 


A  BREACH  IN  THE  CITY  WALLS  73 

sat  at  the  gate,  bent  low  over  his  paper.  There  was,  it 
seemed,  more  than  one  way  to  get  by  him.  People  might 
have  headaches  almost  any  time.  He  wondered  if  his 
friend  the  casting  director  were  subject  to  them.  He  must 
carry  a  box  of  the  Eezo  wafers. 

He  strolled  down  the  street  between  the  rows  of  offices 
and  the  immense  covered  stages.  Actors  in  costume  entered 
two  of  these  and  through  their  open  doors  he  could  see  into 
their  shadowy  interiors.  He  would  venture  there  later. 
Just  now  he  wished  to  see  the  outside  of  things.  He  con- 
trived a  pace  not  too  swift  but  business-like  enough  to  con- 
vey the  impression  that  he  was  rightfully  walking  this  for- 
bidden street.  He  seemed  to  be  going  some  place  where 
it  was  of  the  utmost  importance  that  he  should  be,  and 
yet  to  have  started  so  early  that  there  was  no  need  for  haste. 

He  sounded  the  far  end  of  that  long  street  visible  from 
outside  the  gate,  discovering  its  excitements  to  wane  gently 
into  mere  blacksmith  and  carpenter  shops.  He  retraced 
his  steps,  this  time  ignoring  the  long  row  of  offices  for  the 
opposite  line  of  stages.  From  one  dark  interior  came  the 
slow,  dulled  strains  of  an  orchestra  and  from  another  shots 
rang  out.  He  met  or  passed  strangely  attired  people,  ban- 
dits, priests,  choir  boys,  gentlemen  in  evening  dress  with 
blue-black  eyebrows  and  careful  hair.  And  he  observed 
many  beautiful  young  women,  variously  attired,  hurrying 
to  or  from  the  stages.  One  lovely  thing  was  in  bridal  dress 
of  dazzling  white,  a  veil  of  lace  floating  from  her  blonde  head, 
her  long  train  held  up  by  a  coloured  maid.  She  chatted 
amiably,  as  she  crossed  the  street,  with  an  evil-looking  Mexi- 
can in  a  silver-corded  hat — a  veritable  Snake  le  Vasquez. 

But  the  stages  could  wait.  He  must  see  more  streets. 
Again  reaching  the  office  that  had  been  his  secret  gateway 
to  these  delights,  he  turned  to  the  right,  still  with  the  air  of 
having  business  at  a  certain  spot  to  which  there  was  really 
no  need  for  him  to  hurry.  There  were  fewer  people  this 
way,  and  presently,  as  if  by  magic  carpet,  he  had  left  all  that 
sunlight  and  glitter  and  cheerful  noise  and  stood  alone  in 


74  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

the  shadowy,  narrow  street  of  a  frontier  town.  There  was 
no  bustle  here,  only  an  intense  stillness.  The  street  was 
deserted,  the  shop  doors  closed.  There  was  a  ghostlike, 
chilling  effect  that  left  him  uneasy.  He  called  upon  himself 
to  remember  that  he  was  not  actually  in  a  remote  and 
desolate  frontier  town  from  which  the  inhabitants  had  fled; 
that  back  of  him  but  a  few  steps  was  abounding  life,  that 
outside  was  the  prosaic  world  passing  and  repassing  a  gate 
hard  to  enter.  He  whistled  the  fragment  of  a  tune  and  went 
farther  along  this  street  of  uncanny  silence  and  vacancy, 
noting,  as  he  went,  the  signs  on  the  shop  windows.  There  was 
the  Busy  Bee  Restaurant,  Jim's  Place,  the  Hotel  Renown, 
the  Last  Dollar  Dance  Hall,  Hank's  Pool  Room.  Upon  one 
window  was  painted  the  terse  announcement,  "Joe — Buy 
or  Sell."  The  Happy  Days  Bar  adjoined  the  General  Store. 

He  moved  rapidly  through  this  street.  It  was  no  place 
to  linger.  At  the  lower  end  it  gave  insanely  upon  a  row  of 
three-story  brownstone  houses  which  any  picture  patron 
would  recognize  as  being  wholly  of  New  York.  There 
were  the  imposing  steps,  the  double-doored  entrances,  the 
broad  windows,  the  massive  lines  of  the  whole.  And  be- 
yond this  he  came  to  a  many-coloured  little  street  out  of 
Bagdad,  overhung  with  gay  balconies,  vivacious  with  spin- 
dled towers  and  minarets,  and  small  reticent  windows,  out 
of  which  veiled  ladies  would  glance.  And  all  was  still  with 
the  stillness  of  utter  desertion. 

Then  he  explored  farther  and  felt  curiously  disappointed 
at  finding  that  these  structures  were  to  real  houses  what  a 
dicky  is  to  a  sincere,  genuine  shirt.  They  were  preten- 
tiously false. 

One  had  but  to  step  behind  them  to  discover  them  as  poor 
shells. 

Their  backs  were  jutting  beams  carried  but  little  beyond 
the  fronts  and  their  stout-appearing  walls  were  revealed  to 
be  fragile  contrivances  of  button-lath  and  thin  plaster. 
The  ghost  quality  departed  from  them  with  this  discovery. 

He  left  these  cities  of  silence  and  came  upon  an  open  space 


A  BREACH  IN  THE  CITY  WALLS  75 

and  people.  They  were  grouped  before  a  railway  station,  a 
small  red  structure  beside  a  line  of  railway  track.  At  one  end 
in  black  letters,  on  a  narrow  white  board,  was  the  name 
Boomerville. 

The  people  were  plainly  Western:  a  dozen  cowboys,  a 
sprinkling  of  bluff  ranchers  and  their  families.  An  absorbed 
young  man  in  cap  and  khaki  and  puttees  came  from  a  dis- 
tant group  surrounding  a  camera  and  readjusted  the  line 
of  these  people.  He  placed  them  to  his  liking.  A  wagon 
drawn  by  two  horses  was  driven  up  and  a  rancher  helped  a 
woman  and  girl  to  alight.  The  girl  was  at  once  sought  out 
by  the  cowboys.  They  shook  hands  warmly  under  mega- 
phoned directions  from  a  man  back  by  the  camera.  The 
rancher  and  his  wife  mingled  with  the  group.  The  girl  was 
drawn  aside  by  one  of  the  cowboys.  He  had  a  nobler  pres- 
ence than  the  others;  he  was  handsome  and  his  accoutre- 
mqnts  seemed  more  expensive.  They  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes  a  long  time,  apparently  pledging  an  eternal 
fidelity.  One  gathered  that  there  would  have  been  an 
embrace  but  for  the  cowboy's  watchful  companions.  They 
must  say  good-by  with  a  mere  handshake,  though  this  was  a 
slow,  trembling,  long-drawn  clasp  while  they  steadily  re- 
garded each  other,  and  a  second  camera  was  brought  to 
record  it  at  a  distance  of  six  feet.  Merton  Gill  thrilled  with 
the  knowledge  that  he  was  beholding  his  first  close-up.  His 
long  study  of  the  photo-drama  enabled  him  to  divine  that 
the  rancher's  daughter  was  going  to  Vassar  College  to  be 
educated,  but  that,  although  returning  a  year  later  a  poised 
woman  of  the  world,  she  would  still  long  for  the  handsome 
cowboy  who  would  marry  her  and  run  the  Bar-X  ranch. 
The  scene  was  done.  The  camera  would  next  be  turned 
upon  a  real  train  at  some  real  station,  while  the  girl,  with  a 
final  look  at  her  lover,  entered  a  real  car,  which  the  camera 
would  show  moving  off  to  Vassar  College.  Thus  conveying 
to  millions  of  delighted  spectators  the  impression  that  a  real 
train  had  steamed  out  of  the  station,  which  was  merely  an 
imitation  of  one,  on  the  Holden  lot. 


76  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

The  watcher  passed  on.  He  could  hear  the  cheerful  drone 
of  a  sawmill  where  logs  were  being  cut.  He  followed  the 
sound  and  came  to  its  source.  The  saw  was  at  the  end  of 
an  oblong  pool  in  which  logs  floated.  Workmen  were  poling 
these  toward  the  saw.  On  a  raised  platform  at  one  side 
was  a  camera  and  a  man  who  gave  directions  through  a 
megaphone;  a  neighbouring  platform  held  a  second  camera. 
A  beautiful  young  girl  in  a  print  dress  and  her  thick  hair 
in  a  braid  came  bringing  his  dinner  in  a  tin  pail  to  the  hand- 
somest of  the  actors.  He  laid  down  his  pike-pole  and  took 
both  the  girl's  hands  in  his  as  he  received  the  pail.  One 
of  the  other  workmen,  a  hulking  brute  with  an  evil  face, 
scowled  darkly  at  this  encounter  and  a  moment  later  had  in- 
sulted the  beautiful  young  girl.  But  the  first  actor  felled 
him  with  a  blow.  He  came  up  from  this,  crouchingly,  and 
the  fight  was  on.  Merton  was  excited  by  this  fight,  even 
though  he  was  in  no  doubt  as  to  which  actor  would  win  it. 
They  fought  hard,  and  for  a  time  it  appeared  that  the  hand- 
some actor  must  lose,  for  the  bully  who  had  insulted  the 
girl  was  a  man  of  great  strength,  but  the  science  of  the  other 
told.  It  was  the  first  fight  Merton  had  ever  witnessed. 
He  thought  these  men  must  really  be  hating  each  other,  so 
bitter  were  their  expressions.  The  battle  grew  fiercer. 
It  was  splendid.  Then,  at  the  shrill  note  of  a  whistle,  the 
panting  combatants  fell  apart. 

"Rotten!"  said  an  annoyed  voice  through  the  megaphone. 
"Can't  you  boys  give  me  a  little  action?  Jazz  it,  jazz  it! 
Think  it's  a  love  scene?  Go  to  it,  now — plenty  of  jazz — 
understand  what  I  mean?"  He  turned  to  the  camera  man 
beside  him.  "Ed,  you  turn  ten — we  got  to  get  some  speed 
some  way.  Jack" — to  the  other  camera  man — "you  stay 
on  twelve.  All  ready!  Get  some  life  into  it,  now,  and 
Lafe" — this  to  the  handsome  actor — "don't  keep  trying  to 
hold  your  front  to  the  machine.  We'll  get  you  all  right. 
Ready,  now.  Camera!" 

Again  the  fight  was  on.  It  went  to  a  bitter  finish  in 
which  the  vanquished  bully  was  sent  with  a  powerful  blow 


A  BREACH  IN  THE  CITY  WALLS  77 

backward  into  the  water,  while  the  beautiful  young  girl  ran 
to  the  victor  and  nestled  in  the  protection  of  his  strong  arms. 

Merton  Gill  passed  on.  This  was  the  real  thing.  He 
would  have  a  lot  to  tell  Tessie  Kearns  in  his  next  letter. 
Beyond  the  sawmill  he  came  to  an  immense  wooden  structure 
like  a  cradle  on  huge  rockers  supported  by  scaffolding. 
From  the  ground  he  could  make  nothing  of  it,  but  a  ladder 
led  to  the  top.  An  hour  on  the  Holden  lot  had  made  him 
bold.  He  mounted  the  ladder  and  stood  on  the  deck  of 
what  he  saw  was  a  sea-going  yacht.  Three  important- 
looking  men  were  surveying  the  deckhouse  forward.  They 
glanced  at  the  newcomer  but  with  a  cheering  absence  of  curi- 
osity or  even  of  interest.  He  sauntered  past  them  with  a 
polite  but  not-too-keen  interest.  The  yacht  would  be  an 
expensive  one.  The  deck  fittings  were  elaborate.  A  glance 
into  the  captain's  cabin  revealed  it  to  be  fully  furnished, 
with  a  chart  and  a  sextant  on  the  mahogany  desk. 

"Where's  the  bedding  for  this  stateroom?"  asked  one  of 
the  men. 

"I  got  a  prop-rustler  after  it,"  one  of  the  others  informed 
him. 

They  strolled  aft  and  paused  by  an  iron  standard  ingeni- 
ously swung  from  the  deck. 

"That's  Burke's  idea,"  said  one  of  the  men.  "I  hadn't 
thought  about  a  steady  support  for  the  camera;  of  course  if 
we  stood  it  on  deck  it  would  rock  when  the  ship  rocked  and 
we'd  get  no  motion.  So  Burke  figures  this  out.  The  camera 
is  on  here  and  swings  by  that  weight  so  it's  always  straight 
and  the  rocking  registers.  Pretty  neat,  what?" 

"That  was  nothing  to  think  of,"  said  one  of  the  other  men, 
in  apparent  disparagement.  "I  thought  of  it  myself  the  min- 
ute I  saw  it."  The  other  two  grinned  at  this,  though  Merton 
Gill,  standing  by,  saw  nothing  to  laugh  at.  He  thought  the 
speaker  was  pretty  cheeky;  for  of  course  any  one  could  think 
of  this  device  after  seeing  it.  He  paused  for  a  final  survey 
of  his  surroundings  from  this  elevation.  He  could  see  the 
real  falseness  of  the  sawmill  he  had  just  left,  he  could  also 


78  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

look  into  the  exposed  rear  of  the  railway  station,  and  could 
observe  beyond  it  the  exposed  skeleton  of  that  New  York 
street.  He  was  surrounded  by  mockeries. 

He  clambered  down  the  ladder  and  sauntered  back  to  the 
street  of  offices.  He  was  by  this  time  confident  that  no  one 
was  going  to  ask  him  what  right  he  had  in  there.  Now,  too, 
he  became  conscious  of  hunger  and  at  the  same  moment 
caught  the  sign  "Cafeteria"  over  a  neat  building  hitherto 
unnoticed.  People  were  entering  this,  many  of  them  in 
costume.  He  went  idly  toward  the  door,  glanced  up,  looked 
at  his  watch,  and  became,  to  any  one  curious  about  him,  a 
man  who  had  that  moment  decided  he  might  as  well  have  a 
little  food.  He  opened  the  screen  door  of  the  cafeteria,  half 
expecting  it  to  prove  one  of  those  structures  equipped  only 
with  a  front.  But  the  cafeteria  was  practicable.  The  floor 
was  crowded  with  little  square  polished  tables  at  which 
many  people  were  eating.  A  railing  along  the  side  of  the 
room  made  a  passage  to  the  back  where  food  was  served 
from  a  counter  to  the  proffered  tray.  He  fell  into  line.  No 
one  had  asked  him  how  he  dared  try  to  eat  with  real  actors 
and  actresses  and  apparently  no  one  was  going  to.  Toward 
the  end  of  the  passage  was  a  table  holding  trays  and  napkins 
the  latter  wrapped  about  an  equipment  of  cutlery.  He  took 
his  tray  and  received  at  the  counter  the  foods  he  designated. 
He  went  through  this  ordeal  with  difficulty  because  it  was 
not  easy  to  keep  from  staring  about  at  other  patrons.  Con- 
stantly he  was  detecting  some  remembered  face.  But  at 
last,  with  his  laden  tray  he  reached  a  vacant  table  near  the 
centre  of  the  room  and  took  his  seat.  He  absently  arranged 
the  food  before  him.  He  could  stare  at  leisure  now.  All 
about  him  were  the  strongly  marked  faces  of  the  nlm  people, 
heavy  with  makeup,  interspersed  with  hungry  civilians,  who 
might  be  producers,  directors,  camera  men,  or  mere  artisans, 
for  the  democracy  of  the  cafeteria  seemed  ideal. 

At  the  table  ahead  of  his  he  recognized  the  man  who  had 
been  annoyed  one  day  by  the  silly  question  of  the  Montague 
girl.  They  had  said  he  was  a  very  important  director.  He 


A  BREACH  IN  THE  CITY  WALLS  79 

still  looked  important  and  intensely  serious.  He  was  a 
short,  very  plump  man,  with  pale  cheeks  under  dark  brows, 
and  troubled  looking  gray  hair.  He  was  very  seriously  ex- 
plaining something  to  the  man  who  sat  with  him  and  whom 
he  addressed  as  Governor,  a  merry-looking  person  with  a 
stubby  gray  mustache  and  little  hair,  who  seemed  not  too 
attentive  to  the  director. 

"You  see,  Governor,  it's  this  way:  the  party  is  lost  on  the 
desert — understand  what  I  mean — and  Kempton  Ward  and 
the  girl  stumble  into  this  deserted  tomb  just  at  nightfall. 
Now  here's  where  the  big  kick  comes " 

Merton  Gill  ceased  to  listen  for  there  now  halted  at  his 
table,  bearing  a  laden  tray,  none  other  than  the  Montague 
girl,  she  of  the  slangy  talk  and  the  regrettably  free  manner. 
She  put  down  her  tray  and  seated  herself  before  it.  She  had 
not  asked  permission  of  the  table's  other  occupant,  indeed 
she  had  not  even  glanced  at  him,  for  cafeteria  etiquette  is 
not  rigorous.  He  saw  that  she  was  heavily  made  up  and  in 
the  costume  of  a  gypsy,  he  thought,  a  short  vivid  skirt,  a  gay 
waist,  heavy  gold  hoops  in  her  ears,  and  dark  hair  massed 
about  her  small  head.  He  remembered  that  this  would  not 
be  her  own  hair.  She  fell  at  once  to  her  food.  The  men 
at  the  next  table  glanced  at  her,  the  director  without  cordial- 
ity; but  the  other  man  smiled  upon  her  cheerfully. 

"Hello,  Flips!    How's  the  girl?" 

"Everything's  jake  with  me,  Governor.  How's  things 
over  at  your  shop?" 

"So,  so.     I  see  you're  working." 

"Only  for  two  days.  I'm  just  atmosphere  in  this  piece. 
I  got  some  real  stuff  coming  along  pretty  soon  for  Baxter. 
Got  to  climb  down  ten  stories  of  a  hotel  elevator  cable,  and 
ride  a  brake-beam  and  be  pushed  off  a  cliff  and  thrown  to 
the  lions,  and  a  few  other  little  things." 

"That's  good,  Flips.  Come  in  and  see  me  some  time. 
Have  a  little  chat.  Ma  working?" 

"Yeah — got  a  character  bit  with  Charlotte  King  in  Her 
Other  Husband." 


80  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"Glad  to  hear  it.    How's  Pa  Montague?" 

"Pa's  in  bad.  They've  signed  him  for  Camillia  of  the 
Cumberlands,  providing  he  raises  a  brush,  and  just  now  it 
ain't  long  enough  for  whiskers  and  too  long  for  anything 
else,  so  he's  putterin'  around  with  his  new  still." 

"Well,  drop  over  sometime,  Flips,  I'm  keeping  you  in 
mind." 

"Thanks,  Governor.  Say "  Merton  glanced  up  in  time 

to  see  her  wink  broadly  at  the  man,  and  look  toward  his  com- 
panion who  still  seriously  made  notes  on  the  back  of  an 
envelope.  The  man's  face  melted  to  a  grin  which  he  quickly 
erased.  The  girl  began  again: 

"Mr.  Henshaw — could  you  give  me  just  a  moment,  Mr. 
Henshaw?"  The  serious  director  looked  up  in  quite  frank 
annoyance. 

"Yes,  yes,  what  is  it,  Miss  Montague?" 

"Well,  listen,  Mr.  Henshaw,  I  got  a  great  idea  for  a  story, 
and  I  was  thinking  who  to  take  it  to  and  I  thought  of  this 
one  and  I  thought  of  that  one,  and  I  asked  my  friends,  and 
they  all  say  take  it  to  Mr.  Henshaw,  because  if  a  story  has 
any  merit  he's  the  one  director  on  the  lot  that  can  detect  it 
and  get  every  bit  of  value  out  of  it,  so  I  thought — but  of 
course  if  you're  busy  just  now " 

The  director  thawed  ever  so  slightly.  "Of  course,  my  girl, 
I'm  busy — but  then  I'm  always  busy.  They  run  me  to 
death  here.  Still,  it  was  very  kind  of  your  friends,  and  of 
course " 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Henshaw."  She  clasped  her  hands  to 
her  breast  and  gazed  raptly  into  the  face  of  her  coy  listener. 
"Of  course  I'll  have  to  have  help  on  the  details,  but  it  starts 

off  kind  of  like  this.  You  see  I'm  a  Hawaiian  princess " 

She  paused,  gazing  aloft. 

"  Yes,  yes,  Miss  Montague — an  Hawaiian  princess.  Go  on, 
go  on ! " 

"Oh,  excuse  me;  I  was  thinking  how  I'd  dress  her  for  the 
last  spool  in  the  big  fire  scene.  Well,  anyway,  I'm  this 
^Hawaiian  princess,  and  my  father,  old  King  Mauna  Loa, 


A  BREACH  IN  THE  CITY  WALLS  81 

dies  and  leaves  me  twenty-one  thousand  volcanoes  and  a 
billiard  cue " 

Mr.  Henshaw  blinked  rapidly  at  this.  For  a  moment  he 
was  dazed.  "A  billiard  cue,  did  you  say?"  he  demanded 
blankly. 

"Yes.  And  every  morning  I  have  to  go  out  and  ram  it 
down  the  volcanoes  to  see  are  they  all  right — and " 

"Tush,  tush!"  interrupted  Mr.  Henshaw  scowling  upon 
the  playwright  and  fell  again  to  his  envelope,  pretending 
thereafter  to  ignore  her. 

The  girl  seemed  to  be  unaware  that  she  had  lost  his  atten- 
tion. "And  you  see  the  villain  is  very  wealthy;  he  owns  the 
largest  ukelele  factory  in  the  islands,  and  he  tries  to  get  me 
in  his  power,  but  he's  foiled  by  my  fiance,  a  young  native  by 
the  name  of  Herman  Schwarz,  who  has  invented  a  folding 
ukelele,  so  the  villain  gets  his  hired  Hawaiian  orchestra  to 
shove  Herman  down  one  of  the  volcanoes  and  me  down 
another,  but  I  have  the  key  around  my  neck,  which  Father 
put  there  when  I  was  a  babe  and  made  me  swear  always 
to  wear  it,  even  in  the  bath-tub,  so  I  let  myself  out  and 
unlock  the  other  one  and  let  Herman  out  and  the  orchestra 
discovers  us  and  chases  us  over  the  cliff,  and  then  along  comes 
my  old  nurse  who  is  now  running  a  cigar  store  in  San  Pedro 
and  she "  Here  she  affected  to  discover  that  Mr.  Hen- 
shaw no  longer  listened. 

"Why,  Mr.  Henshaw's  gone!"  she  exclaimed  dramatically. 
"Boy,  boy,  page  Mr.  Henshaw."  Mr.  Henshaw  remained 
oblivious. 

"Oh,  well,  of  course  I  might  have  expected  you  wouldn't 
have  time  to  listen  to  my  poor  little  plot.  Of  course  I  know 
it's  crude,  but  it  did  seem  to  me  that  something  might  be 
made  out  of  it."  She  resumed  her  food.  Mr.  Henshaw's 
companion  here  winked  at  her  and  was  seen  to  be  shaking 
with  emotion.  Merton  Gill  could  not  believe  it  to  be  laugh- 
ter, for  he  had  seen  nothing  to  laugh  at.  A  busy  man  had 
been  bothered  by  a  silly  girl  who  thought  she  had  the  plot 
for  a  photodrama,  and  even  he,  Merton  Gill,  could  have 


82  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

told  her  that  her  plot  was  impossibly  wild  and  inconsequent. 
If  she  were  going  into  that  branch  of  the  art  she  ought  to 
take  lessons,  the  way  Tessie  Kearns  did.  She  now  looked  so 
mournful  that  he  was  almost  moved  to  tell  her  this,  but  her 
eyes  caught  his  at  that  moment  and  in  them  was  a  light  so 
curious,  so  alive  with  hidden  meanings,  so  eloquent  of  some 
iron  restraint  she  put  upon  her  own  emotions,  that  he  be- 
came confused  and  turned  his  gaze  from  hers  almost  with  the 
rebuking  glare  of  Henshaw.  She  glanced  quickly  at  him 
again,  studying  his  face  for  the  first  time.  There  had  been 
such  a  queer  look  in  this  young  man's  eyes;  she  understood 
most  looks,  but  not  that  one. 

Henshaw  was  treating  the  late  interruption  as  if  it  had 
not  been.  "You  see,  Governor,  the  way  we  got  the  script 
now,  they're  in  this  tomb  alone  for  the  night — understand 
what  I  mean — and  that's  where  the  kick  comes  for  the 
audience.  They  know  he's  a  strong  young  fellow  and  she's 
a  beautiful  girl  and  absolutely  in  his  power — see  what  I 
mean? — but  he's  a  gentleman  through  and  through  and 
never  lays  a  hand  on  her.  Get  that?  Then  later  along 
comes  this  Ben  Ali  Ahab " 

The  Montague  girl  glanced  again  at  the  face  of  the  strange 
young  man  whose  eyes  had  held  a  new  expression  for  her,  but 
she  and  Mr.  Henshaw  and  the  so-called  governor  and  all 
those  other  diners  who  rattled  thick  crockery  and  talked 
unendingly  had  ceased  to  exist  for  Merton  Gill.  A  dozen 
tables  down  the  room  and  nearer  the  door  sat  none  other 
than  Beulah  Baxter.  Alone  at  her  table,  she  gazed  raptly 
aloft,  meditating  perhaps  some  daring  new  feat.  Merton 
Gill  stared,  entranced,  frozen.  The  Montague  girl  per- 
fectly understood  this  look  and  traced  it  to  its  object.  Then 
she  surveyed  Merton  Gill  again  with  something  faintly  like 
pity  in  her  shrewd  eyes.  He  was  still  staring,  still  rapt. 

Beulah  Baxter  ceased  to  look  aloft.  She  daintily  reached 
for  a  wooden  toothpick  from  the  bowl  before  her  and  arose 
to  pay  her  check  at  the  near-by  counter.  Merton  Gill 
arose  at  the  same  moment  and  stumbled  a  blind  way  through 


A  BREACH  IN  THE  CITY  WALLS  83 

the  intervening  tables.  When  he  reached  the  counter  Miss 
Baxter  was  passing  through  the  door.  He  was  about  to 
follow  her  when  a  cool  but  cynical  voice  from  the  counter 
said,  "Hey,  Bill — ain't  you  fergittin'  somepin'." 

He  looked  for  the  check  for  his  meal;  it  should  have  been 
in  one  hand  or  the  other.  But  it  was  in  neither.  He  must 
have  left  it  back  on  his  tray.  Now  he  must  return  for  it. 
He  went  as  quickly  as  he  could.  The  Montague  girl  was 
holding  it  up  as  he  approached.  "Here's  the  little  joker, 
Kid,"  she  said  kindly. 

'Thanks ! "  said  Merton.  He  said  it  haughtily,  not  mean- 
ing to  be  haughty,  but  he  was  embarrassed  and  also  fearful 
that  Beulah  Baxter  would  be  lost.  "Exit  limping,"  mur- 
mured the  girl  as  he  turned  away.  He  hurried  again  to  the 
door,  paid  the  check  and  was  outside.  Miss  Baxter  was  not 
to  be  seen.  His  forgetfulness  about  the  check  had  lost  her 
to  him.  He  had  meant  to  follow,  to  find  the  place  where 
she  was  working,  and  look  and  look  and  look!  Now  he -had 
lost  her.  But  she  might  be  on  one  of  those  stages  within 
the  big  barns.  Perhaps  the  day  was  not  yet  lost.  He 
crossed  the  street,  forgetting  to  saunter,  and  ventured  within 
the  cavernous  gloom  beyond  an  open  door.  He  stood  for  a 
moment,  his  vision  dulled  by  the  dusk.  Presently  he  saw 
that  he  faced  a  wall  of  canvas  backing.  Beyond  this  were 
low  voices  and  the  sound  of  people  moving.  He  went  for- 
ward to  a  break  in  the  canvas  wall  and  at  the  same  moment 
there  was  a  metallic  jar  and  light  flooded  the  enclosure. 
From  somewhere  outside  came  music,  principally  the  low, 
leisurely  moan  of  a  'cello.  A  beautiful  woman  in  evening 
dress  was  with  suppressed  emotion  kneeling  at  the  bedside  of 
a  sleeping  child.  At  the  doorway  stood  a  dark,  handsome 
gentleman  in  evening  dress,  regarding  her  with  a  cynical 
smile.  The  woman  seemed  to  bid  the  child  farewell,  and 
arose  with  hands  to  her  breast  and  quivering  lips.  The 
still-smiling  gentleman  awaited  her.  When  she  came  to 
him,  glancing  backward  to  the  sleeping  dhild,  he  threw  about 
her  an  elaborate  fur  cloak  and  drew  her  to  him,  his  cynical 


84  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

smile  changing  to  one  of  deceitful  tenderness.  The  woman 
still  glanced  back  at  the  child,  but  permitted  herself  to  be 
drawn  through  the  doorway  by  the  insistent  gentleman. 
From  a  door  the  other  side  of  the  bed  came  a  kind-faced 
nurse.  She  looked  first  at  the  little  one  then  advanced 
to  stare  after  the  departing  couple.  She  raised  her  hands 
tragically  and  her  face  became  set  in  a  mask  of  sorrow  and 
despair.  She  clasped  the  hands  desperately. 

Merton  Gill  saw  his  nurse  to  be  the  Montague  mother. 
"All  right,"  said  an  authoritative  voice.  Mrs.  Montague 
relaxed  her  features  and  withdrew,  while  an  unkempt  youth 
came  to  stand  in  front  of  the  still-grinding  camera  and  held 
before  it  a  placard  on  which  were  numbers.  The  camera 
stopped,  the  youth  with  the  placard  vanished.  "Save  it," 
called  another  voice,  and  with  another  metallic  jar  the  flood 
of  light  was  turned  off.  The  'cello  ceased  its  moan  in  the 
middle  of  a  bar. 

The  watcher  recalled  some  of  the  girl's  chat.  Her  mother 
had  a  character  bit  in  Her  Other  Husband.  This  would  be 
it,  one  of  those  moving  tragedies  not  unfamiliar  to  the  screen 
enthusiast.  The  beautiful  but  misguided  wife  had  been  say- 
ing good-by  to  her  little  one  and  was  leaving  her  beautiful 
home  at  the  solicitation  of  the  false  friend  in  evening  dress — 
forgetting  all  in  one  mad  moment.  The  watcher  was  a 
tried  expert,  and  like  the  trained  faunal  naturalist  could 
determine  a  species  from  the  shrewd  examination  of  one 
bone  of  a  photoplay.  He  knew  that  the  wife  had  been 
ignored  by  a  husband  who  permitted  his  vast  business  in- 
terests to  engross  his  whole  attention,  leaving  the  wife  to 
seek  solace  in  questionable  quarters.  He  knew  that  the 
shocked  but  faithful  nurse  would  presently  discover  the 
little  one  to  be  suffering  from  a  dangerous  fever;  that  a  hastily 
summoned  physician  would  shake  his  head  and  declare  in 
legible  words,  "Naught  but  a  mother's  love  can  win  that  tiny 
soul  back  from  the  brink  of  Eternity."  The  father  would 
overhear  this,  and  would  see  it  all  then :  how  his  selfish  absorp- 
tion in  Wall  Street  had  driven  his  wife  to  another.  He  would 


A  BREACH  IN  THE  CITY  WALLS  85 

pursue  her,  would  find  her  ere  yet  it  was  too  late.  He  would 
discover  that  her  better  nature  had  already  prevailed  and 
that  she  had  started  back  without  being  sent  for.  They 
would  kneel  side  by  side,  hand  in  hand,  at  the  bedside  of  the 
little  one,  who  would  recover  and  smile  and  prattle,  and  to- 
gether they  would  face  an  untroubled  future. 

This  was  all  thrilling  to  Merton  Gill;  but  Beulah  Baxter 
was  not  here,  her  plays  being  clean  and  wholesome  things 
of  the  great  outdoors.  Far  down  the  great  enclosure  was 
another  wall  of  canvas  backing,  a  flood  of  light  above  it  and 
animated  voices  from  within.  He  stood  again  to  watch. 
But  this  drama  seemed  to  have  been  suspended.  The  room 
exposed  was  a  bedroom  with  an  open  window  facing  an 
open  door;  the  actors  and  the  mechanical  staff  as  well  were 
busily  hurling  knives  at  various  walls.  They  were  earnest 
and  absorbed  in  this  curious  pursuit.  Sometimes  they 
made  the  knife  penetrate  the  wall,  oftener  it  merely  struck 
and  clattered  to  the  floor.  Five  knives  at  once  were  being 
hurled  by  five  enthusiasts,  while  a  harried-looking  director 
watched  and  criticised. 

"You're  a  clumsy  bunch,"  he  announced  at  last.  "It's  a 
simple  thing  to  do,  isn't  it?"  The  knife-throwers  redoubled 
their  efforts,  but  they  did  not  find  it  a  simple  thing  to  do. 

"Let  me  try  it,  Mr.  Burke."  It  was  the  Montague  girl 
still  in  her  gipsy  costume.  She  had  been  standing  quietly 
in  the  shadow  observing  the  ineffective  practice. 

"Hello,  Flips!  Sure,  you  can  try  it.  Show  these  boys 
something  good,  now.  Here,  Al,  give  Miss  Montague  that 
stickeree  of  yours."  Al  seemed  glad  to  relinquish  the  weapon. 
Miss  Montague  hefted  it,  and  looked  doubtful. 

"It  ain't  balanced  right,"  she  declared.  "Haven't  you 
got  one  with  a  heavier  handle?" 

"Fair  enough,"  said  the  director.  "Hey,  Pickles,  let  her 
try  that  one  you  got."  Pickles,  too,  was  not  unwilling  to 
oblige. 

"That's  better,"  said  the  girl.  "It's  balanced  right." 
Taking  the  blade  by  its  point  between  thumb  and  forefinger 


86  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

she  sent  it  with  a  quick  flick  of  the  wrist  into  the  wall  a 
dozen  feet  away.  It  hung  there  quivering. 

"There!  That's  what  we  want.  It's  got  to  be  quivering 
when  Jack  shoots  at  Ramon  who  threw  it  at  him  as  he  leaps 
through  the  window.  Try  it  again,  Flips."  The  girl  obliged 
and  bowed  impressively  to  the  applause. 

"Now  come  here  and  try  it  through  the  doorway."  He  led 
her  around  the  set.  "Now  stand  here  and  see  can  you  put  it 
into  the  wall  just  to  the  right  of  the  window.  Good !  Some 
little  knife-thrower,  I'll  say.  Now  try  it  once  with  Jack 
coming  through.  Get  set,  Jack." 

Jack  made  his  way  to  the  window  through  which  he  was  to 
leap.  He  paused  there  to  look  in  with  some  concern.  "  Say, 
Mr.  Burke,  will  you  please  make  sure  she  understands? 
She  isn't  to  let  go  of  that  thing  until  I'm  in  and  crouched 
down  ready  to  shoot — understand  what  I  mean?  I  don't 
want  to  get  nicked  nor  nothing." 

"All  right,  all  right!    She  understands." 

Jack  leaped  through  the  window  to  a  crouch,  weapon  in 
hand.  The  knife  quivered  in  the  wall  above  him  as  he 
shot. 

"Fine  and  dandy.  Some  class,  I'll  say.  All  right,  Jack. 
Get  back.  We'll  gun  this  little  scene  right  here  and  now. 
All  ready,  Jack,  all  ready  Miss  Montague — camera! — one, 
two,  three — come  in,  Jack."  Again  the  knife  quivered  in 
the  wall  above  his  head  even  while  he  crouched  to  shoot  at 
the  treacherous  Mexican  who  had  thrown  it. 

"Good  work,  Flips.  Thanks  a  whole  lot.  We'll  do  as 
much  for  you  some  time." 

"You're  entirely  welcome,  Mr.  Burke.  No  trouble  to 
oblige.  How  you  coming?" 

"  Coming  good.  This  thing's  going  to  be  a  knockout.  I 
bet  it'll  gross  a  million.  Nearly  done,  too,  except  for  some 
chase  stuff  up  in  the  hills.  I'll  do  that  next  week.  What 
you  doing?" 

"Oh,  everything's  jake  with  me.  I'm  over  on  Number 
Four — Toys  of  Destiny — putting  a  little  pep  into  the  mob 


A  BREACH  IN  THE  CITY  WALLS  87 

stuff.     Laid  out  for  two  hours,  waiting  for  something — I 
don't  know  what." 

Merton  Gill  passed  on.  He  confessed  now  to  a  reluctant 
admiration  for  the  Montague  girl.  She  could  surely  throw 
a  knife.  He  must  practise  that  himself  sometime.  He 
might  have  stayed  to  see  more  of  this  drama  but  he  was 
afraid  the  girl  would  break  out  into  more  of  her  nonsense. 
He  was  aware  that  she  swept  him  with  her  eyes  as  he  turned 
away  but  he  evaded  her  glance.  She  was  not  a  person, 
he  thought,  that  one  ought  to  encourage. 

He  emerged  from  the  great  building  and  crossed  an  alley 
to  another  of  like  size.  Down  toward  its  middle  was  tiie 
usual  wall  of  canvas  with  half-a-dozen  men  about  the  opening 
at  one  corner.  A  curious  whirring  noise  came  from  within. 
He  became  an  inconspicuous  unit  of  the  group  and  gazed 
in.  The  lights  were  on,  revealing  a  long  table  elaborately 
set  as  for  a  banquet,  but  the  guests  who  stood  about  gave 
him  instant  uneasiness.  They  were  in  the  grossest  carica- 
tures of  evening  dress,  both  men  and  women,  and  they  were 
not  beautiful.  The  gowns  of  the  women  were  grotesque 
and  the  men  were  lawless  appearing,  either  as  to  hair  or 
beards  or  both.  He  divined  the  dreadful  thing  he  was  stum- 
bling upon  even  before  he  noted  the  sign  in  large  letters  on 
the  back  of  a  folding  chair:  "Jeff  Baird's  Buckeye  Comedies." 
These  were  the  buffoons  who  with  their  coarse  pantomime, 
their  heavy  horse-play,  did  so  much  to  debase  a  great  art. 
There,  even  at  his  side,  was  the  arch  offender,  none  other 
than  Jeff  Baird  himself,  the  man  whose  regrettable  sense  of 
so-called  humour  led  him  to  make  these  low  appeals  to  the 
witless.  And  even  as  he  looked  the  cross-eyed  man  entered 
the  scene.  Garbed  in  the  weirdly  misfitting  clothes  of  a 
waiter,  holding  aloft  a  loaded  tray  of  dishes,  he  entered  on 
roller  skates,  to  halt  before  Baird  with  his  uplifted  tray  at  a 
precarious  balance. 

"All  right,  that's  better,"  said  Baird.  "And,  Gertie, 
listen:  don't  throw  the  chair  in  front  of  him.  That's  out. 
Now  we'll  have  the  entrance  again.  You  other  boys  on  the 


88  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

rollers,  there "  Three  other  basely  comic  waiters  on 

roller  skates  came  to  attention. 

"Follow  him  in  and  pile  up  on  him  when  he  makes  the 
grand  spill — see  what  I  mean?  Get  your  trays  loaded  now 
and  get  off.  Now  you  other  people,  take  your  seats.  No, 
no,  Annie,  you're  at  the  head,  I  told  you.  Tom,  you're  at 
the  foot  and  start  the  rough-house  when  you  get  the  tray 
in  the  neck.  Now,  all  set." 

Merton  Gill  was  about  to  leave  this  distressing  scene 
but  was  held  in  spite  of  himself  by  the  voice  of  a  newcomer. 

"Hello,  Jeff!    Attaboy!" 

He  knew  without  turning  that  the  Montague  girl  was  again 
at  his  elbow.  He  wondered  if  she  could  be  following  him. 

"Hello,  Flips!  How's  the  kid?"  The  producer  had 
turned  cordially  to  her.  "Just  in  time  for  the  breakaway 
stuff.  See  how  you  like  it." 

"What's  the  big  idea?" 

"Swell  reception  at  the  Maison  de  Glue,  with  the  waiters 
on  roller  skates  in  honour  of  rich  Uncle  Rollo  Glue.  The 
head  waiter  starts  the  fight  by  doing  a  fall  with  his  tray. 
Tom  gets  the  tray  in  the  neck  and  soaks  the  nearest  man — 
banquet  goes  flooey.  Then  we  go  into  the  chase  stuff." 

"Which  is  Uncle  Rollo?" 

"That's  him  at  the  table,  with  the  herbaceous  border  under 
his  chin." 

"Is  he  in  the  fight?" 

"I  think  so.  I  was  going  to  rehearse  it  once  more  to  see 
if  I  could  get  a  better  idea.  Near  as  I  can  see  now,  every- 
body takes  a  crack  at  him." 

"Well,  maybe."  The  Montague  girl  seemed  to  be  con- 
sidering. "Say,  how  about  this,  Jeff?  He's  awful  hungry, 
see,  and  he's  begun  to  eat  the  celery  and  everything  he  can 
reach,  and  when  the  mix-up  starts  he  just  eats  on  and  pays 
no  attention  to  it.  Never  even  looks  up,  see  what  I  mean? 
The  fight  spreads  the  whole  length  of  the  table;  right  around 
Rollo  half-a-dozen  murders  are  going  on  and  he  just  eats 
and  pays  no  attention.  And  he's  still  eating  when  they're 


A  BREACH  IN  THE  CITY  WALLS  89 

all  down  and  out,  and  don't  know  a  thing  till  Charlie  or  some- 
one crowns  him  with  the  punch -bowl.  How  about  it?  Ain't 
there  a  laugh  in  that?"  Baird  had  listened  respectfully  and 
now  patted  the  girl  on  a  shoulder. 

"Good  work,  Kid!  That's  a  gag,  all  right.  The  little 
bean's  sparking  on  all  six,  ain't  it?  Drop  around  again. 
We  need  folks  like  you.  Now,  listen,  Rollo — you  there,  Rollo, 
come  here  and  get  this.  Now,  listen — when  the  fight  be- 
gins  " 

Merton  Gill  turned  decisively  away.  Such  coarse  foolery 
as  this  was  too  remote  from  Beulah  Baxter  who,  somewhere 
on  that  lot,  was  doing  something  really,  as  her  interview 
had  put  it,  distinctive  and  worth  while. 

He  lingered  only  to  hear  the  last  of  Baird's  instructions 
to  Rollo  and  the  absurd  guests,  finding  some  sinister  fascina- 
tion in  the  man's  talk.  Baird  :hen  turned  to  the  girl,  who 
had  also  started  off. 

"Hang  around,  Flips.     Why  the  rush?" 

"Got  to  beat  it  over  to  Number  Four." 

"Got  anything  good  there?" 

"Nothing  that  will  get  me  any  billing.  Been  waiting  two 
hours  now  just  to  look  frenzied  in  a  mob." 

"Well,  say,  come  around  and  see  me  some  time." 

"All  right,  Jeff.  Of  course  I'm  pretty  busy.  When  I 
ain't  working  I've  got  to  think  about  my  art." 

"No,  this  is  on  the  level.  Listen,  now,  sister,  I  got  another 
two  reeler  to  pull  off  after  this  one,  then  I'm  goin'  to  do  some- 
thing new,  see?  Got  a  big  idea.  Probably  something  for 
you  in  it.  Drop  in  t'  the  office  and  talk  it  over.  Come  in 
some  time  next  week.  'F  I  ain't  there  I'll  be  on  the  lot  some 
place.  Don't  forget,  now." 

Merton  Gill,  some  distance  from  the  Buckeye  set,  waited 
to  note  what  direction  the  Montague  girl  would  take.  She 
broke  away  presently,  glanced  brazenly  in  his  direction,  and 
tripped  lightly  out  the  nearest  exit.  He  went  swiftly  to 
one  at  the  far  end  of  the  building,  and  was  again  in  the  ex- 
citing street.  But  the  afternoon  was  drawing  in  and  the 


90  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

street  had  lost  much  of  its  vivacity.  It  would  surely  be  too 
late  for  any  glimpse  of  his  heroine.  And  his  mind  was  al- 
ready cluttered  with  impressions  from  his  day's  adventure. 
He  went  out  through  the  office,  meaning  to  thank  the  casting 
director  for  the  great  favour  she  had  shown  him,  but  she  was 
gone.  He  hoped  the  headache  had  not  driven  her  home. 
If  she  were  to  suffer  again  he  hoped  it  would  be  some  morning. 
He  would  have  the  Eezo  wafers  in  one  pocket  and  a  menthol 
pencil  in  the  other.  And  she  would  again  extend  to  him 
the  freedom  of  that  wonderful  city. 

In  his  room  that  night  he  tried  to  smooth  out  the  jumble 
in  his  dazed  mind.  Those  people  seemed  to  say  so  many 
things  they  considered  funny  but  that  were  not  really  funny 
to  any  one  else.  And  moving-picture  plays  were  always 
waiting  for  something,  with  the  bored  actors  lounging  about 
in  idle  apathy.  Still  in  his  ears  sounded  the  drone  of  the 
sawmill  and  the  deep  purr  of  the  lights  when  they  were  put 
on.  That  was  a  funny  thing.  When  they  wanted  the 
lights  on  they  said  "Kick  it,"  and  when  they  wanted  the 
lights  off  they  said  "Save  it!"  And  why  did  a  boy  come  out 
after  every  scene  and  hold  up  a  placard  with  numbers  on  it 
before  the  camera?  That  placard  had  never  shown  in  any 
picture  he  had  seen.  And  that  queer  Montague  girl,  always 
turning  up  when  you  thought  you  had  got  rid  of  her.  Still, 
she  had  thrown  that  knife  pretty  well.  You  had  to  give  her 
credit  for  that.  But  she  couldn't  be  much  of  an  actress, 
even  if  she  had  spoken  of  acting  with  Miss  Baxter,  of  climb- 
ing down  cables  with  her  and  falling  off  cliffs.  Probably  she 
was  boasting,  because  he  had  never  seen  any  one  but  Miss 
Baxter  do  these  things  in  her  pictures.  Probably  she  had 
some  very  minor  part.  Anyway,  it  was  certain  she  couldn't 
be  much  of  an  actress  because  she  had  almost  promised 
to  act  in  those  terrible  Buckeye  comedies.  And  of  course 
no  one  with  any  real  ambition  or  capacity  could  consider 
such  a  thing — descending  to  rough  horse-play  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  coarser  element  among  screen  patrons. 

But  there  was  one  impression  from  the  day's  whirl  that 


A  BREACH  IN  THE  CITY  WALLS  91 

remained  clear  and  radiant :  He  had  looked  at  the  veritable 
face  of  his  heroine.  He  began  his  letter  to  Tessie  Kearns. 
"At  last  I  have  seen  Miss  Baxter  face  to  face.  There  was  no 
doubt  about  its  being  her.  You  would  have  known  her  at 
once.  And  how  beautiful  she  is!  She  was  looking  up  and 
seemed  inspired,  probably  thinking  about  her  part.  She 
reminded  me  of  that  beautiful  picture  of  St.  Cecelia  playing 
on  the  piano.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  VI 

UNDER  THE  GLASS  TOPS 

HE  APPROACHED  the  office  of  the  Holden  studios 
the  following  morning  with  a  new  air  of  assurance. 
Formerly  the  mere  approach  had  been  an  adven- 
ture; the  look  through  the  gate,  the  quick  glimpse  of  the 
privileged  ones  who  entered,  the  mingling,  later,  with  the 
hopeful  and  the  near-hopeless  ones  who  waited.  But  now 
his  feeling  was  that  he  had,  somehow,  become  a  part  of  that 
higher  life  beyond  the  gate.  He  might  linger  outside  at  odd 
moments,  but  rightfully  he  belonged  inside.  His  novitiate 
had  passed.  He  was  one  of  those  who  threw  knives  or  bat- 
tled at  the  sawmill  with  the  persecuter  of  golden-haired  in- 
nocence, or  lured  beautiful  women  from  their  homes.  He 
might  be  taken,  he  thought,  for  an  actor  resting  between 
pictures. 

At  the  gate  he  suffered  a  momentary  regret  at  an  error  of 
tactics  committed  the  evening  before.  Instead  of  leaving 
the  lot  by  the  office  he  should  have  left  by  the  gate.  He 
should  have  strolled  to  this  exit  in  a  leisurely  manner  and 
stopped,  just  inside  the  barrier,  for  a  chat  with  the  watch- 
man; a  chat,  beginning  with  the  gift  of  a  cigar,  which  should 
have  impressed  his  appearance  upon  that  person.  He 
should  have  remarked  casually  that  he  had  had  a  hard  day  on 
Stage  Number  Four,  and  must  now  be  off  to  a  good  night's 
rest  because  of  the  equally  hard  day  to-morrow.  Thus  he 
<;ould  now  have  approached  the  gate  with  confidence  and 
passed  freely  in,  with  a  few  more  pleasant  words  to  the 
watchman  who  would  have  no  difficulty  in  recalling  him. 

But  it  was  vain  to  wish  this.  For  all  the  watchman  knew 

92 


UNDER  THE  GLASS  TOPS  93 

this  young  man  had  never  been  beyond  the  walls  of  the  for- 
bidden city,  nor  would  he  know  any  reason  why  the  besieger 
should  not  forever  be  kept  outside.  He  would  fix  that  next 
time. 

He  approached  the  window  of  the  casting  office  with 
mingled  emotions.  He  did  not  hope  to  find  his  friend  again 
stricken  with  headache,  but  if  it  chanced  that  she  did  suffer 
he  hoped  to  be  the  first  to  learn  of  it.  Was  he  not  fortified 
with  the  potent  Eezo  wafers,  and  a  new  menthol  pencil, 
even  with  an  additional  remedy  of  tablets  that  the  druggist 
had  strongly  recommended?  It  was,  therefore,  not  with 
any  actual,  crude  disappointment  that  he  learned  of  his 
friend's  perfect  well-being.  She  smiled  pleasantly  at  him, 
the  telephone  receiver  at  one  ear.  "Nothing  to-day,  dear," 
she  said  and  put  down  the  instrument. 

Yes,  the  headache  was  gone,  vanquished  by  his  remedies. 
She  was  fine,  thank  you.  No,  the  headaches  didn't  come 
often.  It  might  be  weeks  before  she  had  another  attack. 
No,  of  course  she  couldn't  be  certain  of  this.  And  indeed 
she  would  be  sure  to  let  him  know  at  the  very  first  sign  of 
their  recurrence. 

He  looked  over  his  patient  with  real  anxiety,  a  solicitude 
from  the  bottom  of  which  he  was  somehow  unable  to  expel 
the  last  trace  of  a  lingering  hope  that  would  have  dismayed 
the  little  woman — not  hope,  exactly,  but  something  almost 
like  it  which  he  would  only  translate  to  himself  as  an  earnest 
desire  that  he  might  be  at  hand  when  the  dread  indisposition 
did  attack  her.  Just  now  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  she 
was  free  from  pain. 

He  thanked  her  profusely  for  her  courtesy  of  the  day 
before.  He  had  seen  wonderful  things.  He  had  learned  a 
lot.  And  he  wanted  to  ask  her  something,  assuring  himself 
that  he  was  alone  in  the  waiting  room.  It  was  this :  did  she 
happen  to  know — was  Miss  Beulah  Baxter  married? 

The  little  woman  sighed  in  a  tired  manner.  "Baxter 
married?  Let  me  see."  She  tapped  her  teeth  with  the  end 
of  a  pencil,  frowning  into  her  vast  knowledge  of  the  people 


94  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

beyond  the  gate.  "Now,  let  me  think."  But  this  appeared 
to  be  without  result.  "Oh,  I  really  don't  know;  I  forget. 
I  suppose  so.  Why  not?  She  often  is." 

He  would  have  asked  more  questions,  but  the  telephone 
rang  and  she  listened  a  long  time,  contributing  a  "yes,  yes," 
of  understanding  at  brief  intervals.  This  talk  ended,  she 
briskly  demanded  a  number  and  began  to  talk  in  her  turn. 
Merton  Gill  saw  that  for  the  time  he  had  passed  from  her 
life.  She  was  calling  an  agency.  She  wanted  people  for  a 
diplomatic  reception  in  Washington.  She  must  have  a 
Bulgarian  general,  a  Serbian  diplomat,  two  French  colonels, 
and  a  Belgian  captain,  all  in  uniform  and  all  good  types. 
She  didn't  want  just  anybody,  but  types  that  would  stand 
out.  Holden  studios  on  Stage  Number  Two.  Before  noon, 
if  possible.  All  right,  then.  Another  bell  rang,  almost 
before  she  had  hung  up.  "Hello,  Grace.  Nothing  to-day, 
dear.  They're  out  on  location,  down  toward  Venice,  getting 
some  desert  stuff.  Yes,  I'll  let  you  know." 

Merton  Gill  had  now  to  make  way  at  the  window  for  a 
youngish,  weary-looking  woman  who  had  once  been  prettier, 
who  led  an  elaborately  dressed  little  girl  of  five.  She  lifted 
the  child  to  the  window.  "  Say  good-morning  to  the  beauti- 
ful lady,  Toots.  Good-morning,  Countess.  I'm  sure  you 
got  something  for  Toots  and  me  to-day  because  it's  our 
birthday — both  born  on  the  same  day — what  do  you  think 
of  that?  Any  little  thing  will  help  us  out  a  lot — how  about 
it?" 

He  went  outside  before  the  end  of  this  colloquy,  but  pres- 
ently saw  the  woman  and  her  child  emerge  and  walk  on 
disconsolately  toward  the  next  studio.  Thus  began  another 
period  of  waiting  from  which  much  of  the  glamour  had  gone. 
It  was  not  so  easy  now  to  be  excited  by  those  glimpses  of  the 
street  beyond  the  gate.  A  certain  haze  had  vanished,  leav- 
ing all  too  apparent  the  circumstance  that  others  were  work- 
ing beyond  the  gate  while  Merton  Gill  loitered  outside, 
his  talent,  his  training,  ignored.  His  early  air  of  careless 
confidence  had  changed  to  one  not  at  all  careless  or  confident. 


UNDER  THE  GLASS  TOPS  95 

He  was  looking  rather  desperate  and  rather  unbelieving. 
And  it  daily  grew  easier  to  count  his  savings.  He  made  no 
mistakes  now.  His  hoard  no  longer  enjoyed  the  addition 
of  fifteen  dollars  a  week.  Only  subtractions  were  made. 

There  came  a  morning  when  but  one  bill  remained.  It 
was  a  ten-dollar  bill,  bearing  at  its  centre  a  steel-engraved 
portrait  of  Andrew  Jackson.  He  studied  it  in  consternation, 
though  still  permitting  himself  to  notice  that  Jackson  would 
have  made  a  good  motion-picture  type — the  long,  narrow, 
severe  face,  the  stiff  uncomprising  mane  of  gray  hair;  prob- 
ably they  would  have  cast  him  for  a  feuding  mountaineer, 
deadly  with  his  rifle,  or  perhaps  as  an  inventor  whose  device 
was  stolen  on  his  death-bed  by  his  wicked  Wall  Street 
partner,  thus  leaving  his  motherless  daughter  at  the  mercy 
of  Society's  wolves. 

But  this  was  not  the  part  that  Jackson  played  in  the 
gripping  drama  of  Merton  Gill.  His  face  merely  stared 
from  the  last  money  brought  from  Simsbury,  Illinois,  and 
the  stare  was  not  reassuring.  It  seemed  to  say  that  there 
was  no  other  money  in  all  the  world.  Decidedly  things  must 
take  a  turn.  Merton  Gill  had  a  quite  definite  feeling  that 
he  had  already  struggled  and  sacrificed  enough  to  give  the 
public  something  better  and  finer.  It  was  time  the  public 
realized  this. 

Still  he  waited,  not  even  again  reaching  the  heart  of  things, 
for  his  friend  beyond  the  window  had  suffered  no  relapse. 
He  came  to  resent  a  certain  inconsequence  in  the  woman. 
She  might  have  had  those  headaches  oftener.  He  had  been 
led  to  suppose  that  she  would,  and  now  she  continued  to  be 
weary  but  entirely  well. 

More  waiting  and  the  ten-dollar  bill  went  for  a  five  and 
some  silver.  He  was  illogically  not  sorry  to  be  rid  of  Andrew 
Jackson,  who  had  looked  so  tragically  skeptical.  The  five- 
dollar  bill  was  much  more  cheerful.  It  bore  the  portrait 
of  Benjamin  Harrison,  a  smooth,  cheerful  face  adorned  with 
whiskers  that  radiated  success.  They  were  little  short  of 
smug  with  success.  He  would  almost  rather  have  had 


96  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

Benjamin  Harrison  on  five  dollars  than  the  grim-faced  Jack- 
son on  ten.  Still,  facts  were  facts.  You  couldn't  wait  as 
long  on  five  dollars  as  you  could  on  ten. 

Then  on  the  afternoon  of  a  day  that  promised  to  end  as 
other  days  had  ended,  a  wave  of  animation  swept  through 
the  waiting  room  and  the  casting  office.  "Swell  cabaret 
stuff"  was  the  phrase  that  brought  the  applicants  to  a  lively 
swarm  about  the  little  window.  Evening  clothes,  glad  wraps, 
cigarette  cases,  vanity-boxes — the  Victor  people  doing  The 
Blight  of  Broadway  with  Muriel  Mercer — Stage  Number  Four 
at  8:30  to-morrow  morning.  There  seemed  no  limit  to  the 
people  desired.  Merton  Gill  joined  the  throng  about  the 
window.  Engagements  were  rapidly  made,  both  through 
the  window  and  over  the  telephone  that  was  now  ringing 
those  people  who  had  so  long  been  told  that  there  was  nothing 
to-day.  He  did  not  push  ahead  of  the  women  as  some  of 
the  other  men  did.  He  even  stood  out  of  the  line  for  the 
Montague  girl  who  had  suddenly  appeared  and  who  from  the 
rear  had  been  exclaiming:  "Women  and  children  first!" 

"Thanks,  old  dear,"  she  acknowledged  the  courtesy  and 
beamed  through  the  window.  "Hullo,  Countess!" 

The  woman  nodded  briefly.  "All  right,  Flips;  I  was  just 
going  to  telephone  you.  Henshaw  wants  you  for  some  baby- 
vamp  stuff  in  the  cabaret  scene  and  in  the  gambling  hell. 
Better  wear  that  salmon-pink  chiffon  and  the  yellow  curls. 
Eight-thirty,  Stage  Four.  Goo'-by." 

"Thanks,  Countess!  Me  for  the  jumping  tintypes  at  the 
hour  named.  I'm  glad  enough  to  be  doing  even  third  busi- 
ness. How  about  Ma?" 

"Sure!  Tell  her  grand-dame  stuff,  chaperone  or  some- 
thing, the  gray  georgette  and  all  her  pearls  and  the  cigarette 
case." 

"I'll  tell  her.  She'll  be  glad  there's  something  doing 
once  more  on  the  perpendicular  stage.  Goo'-by." 

She  stepped  aside  with  "You're  next,  brother!"  Merton 
Gill  acknowledged  this  with  a  haughty  inclination  of  the  head. 
He  must  not  encourage  this  hoyden.  He  glanced  expect- 


UNDER  THE  GLASS  TOPS  97 

antly  through  the  little  window.  His  friend  held  a  tele- 
phone receiver  at  her  ear.  She  smiled  wearily.  "All  right, 
son.  You  got  evening  clothes,  haven't  you?  Of  course,  I 
remember  now.  Stage  Four  at  8:30.  Goo '-by." 

"I  want  to  thank  you  for  this  opportunity "  he  began, 

but  was  pushed  aside  by  an  athletic  young  woman  who 
spoke  from  under  a  broad  hat.  "Hullo,  dearie!  How  about 
me  and  Ella?" 

"Hullo,  Maizie.  All  right.  Stage  Four,  at  8:30,  in  your 
swellest  evening  stuff." 

At  the  door  the  Montague  girl  called  to  an  approaching 
group  who  seemed  to  have  heard  by  wireless  or  occult  means 
the  report  of  new  activity  in  the  casting  office.  "Hurry,  you 
troupers.  You  can  eat  to-morrow  night,  maybe!"  They 
hurried.  She  turned  to  Merton  Gill.  "Seems  like  old 
times,"  she  observed. 

"Does  it?"  he  replied  coldly.  Would  this  chit  never 
understand  that  he  disapproved  of  her  trifling  ways? 

He  went  on,  rejoicing  that  he  had  not  been  compelled  to 
part,  even  temporarily,  with  a  first-class  full-dress  suit, 
hitherto  worn  only  in  the  privacy  of  Lowell  Hardy's  studio. 
It  would  have  been  awkward,  he  thought,  if  the  demand  for 
it  had  been  much  longer  delayed.  He  would  surely  have  let 
that  go  before  sacrificing  his  Buck  Benson  outfit.  He  had 
traversed  the  eucalyptus  avenue  in  this  ecstasy,  and  was  on 
a  busier  thoroughfare.  Before  a  motion-picture  theatre  he 
paused  to  study  the  billing  of  Muriel  Mercer  in  Hearts 
Aflame.  The  beauteous  girl,  in  an  alarming  gown,  was  at 
the  mercy  of  a  fiend  in  evening  dress  whose  hellish  purpose 
was  all  too  plainly  read  in  his  fevered  eyes.  The  girl  writhed 
in  his  grasp.  Doubtless  he  was  demanding  her  hand  in 
marriage.  It  was  a  tense  bit.  And  to-morrow  he  would 
act  with  this  petted  idol  of  the  screen.  And  under  the 
direction  of  that  Mr.  Henshaw  who  seemed  to  take  screen 
art  with  proper  seriousness.  He  wondered  if  by  any  chance 
Mr.  Henshaw  would  call  upon  him  to  do  a  quadruple  tran- 
sition, hate,  fear,  love,  despair.  He  practised  a  few  tran- 


98  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

sitions  as  he  went  on  to  press  his  evening  clothes  in  the 
Patterson  kitchen,  and  to  dream,  that  night,  that  he  rode  his 
good  old  pal,  Pinto,  into  the  gilded  cabaret  to  carry  off 
Muriel  Mercer,  Broadway's  pampered  society  pet,  to  the 
clean  life  out  there  in  the  open  spaces  where  men  are  men. 

At  eight  the  following  morning  he  was  made  up  in  a  large 
dressing  room  by  a  grumbling  extra  who  said  that  it  was  a 
dog's  life  plastering  grease  paint  over  the  maps  of  dubs.  He 
was  presently  on  Stage  Four  in  the  prescribed  evening  regalia 
for  gentlemen.  He  found  the  cabaret  set,  a  gilded  haunt  of 
pleasure  with  small  tables  set  about  an  oblong  of  dancing 
floor.  Back  of  these  on  three  sides  were  raised  platforms 
with  other  tables,  and  above  these  discreet  boxes,  half  masked 
by  drapery,  for  the  seclusion  of  more  retiring  merry-makers. 
The  scene  was  deserted  as  yet,  but  presently  he  was  joined 
by  another  early  comer,  a  beautiful  young  woman  of  Spanish 
type  with  a  thin  face  and  eager,  dark  eyes.  Her  gown  was 
glistening  black  set  low  about  her  polished  shoulders,  and  she 
carried  a  red  rose.  So  exotic  did  she  appear  he  was  surprised 
when  she  addressed  him  in  the  purest  English. 

"Say,  listen  here,  old  timer!  Let's  pick  a  good  table  right 

on  the  edge  before  the  mob  scene  starts.  Lemme  see " 

She  glanced  up  and  down  the  rows  of  tables.  "  The  cam'ras'll 
be  back  there,  so  we  can  set  a  little  closer,  but  not  too  close,  or 
we'll  be  moved  over.  How  'bout  this  here?  Let's  try  it." 
She  sat,  motioning  him  to  the  other  chair.  Even  so  early  in 
his  picture  career  did  he  detect  that  in  facing  this  girl  his 
back  would  be  to  the  camera.  He  hitched  his  chair  about. 

"That's  right,"  said  the  girl,  "I  wasn't  meaning  to  hog  it. 
Say,  we  was  just  in  time,  wasn't  we?" 

Ladies  and  gentlemen  in  evening  dress  were  already  enter- 
ing. They  looked  inquiringly  about  and  chose  tables. 
Those  next  to  the  dancing  space  were  quickly  filled.  Many 
of  the  ladies  permitted  costly  wraps  of  fur  or  brocade  to  spill 
across  the  backs  of  their  chairs.  Many  of  the  gentlemen 
lighted  cigarettes  from  gleaming  metal  cases.  There  was  a 
lively  interchange  of  talk. 


UNDER  THE  GLASS  TOPS  99 

"We  better  light  up,  too,"  said  the  dark  girl.  Merton 
Gill  had  neglected  cigarettes  and  confessed  this  with  some 
embarrassment.  The  girl  presented  an  open  case  of  gold 
attached  to  a  chain  pendent  from  her  girdle.  They  both 
smoked.  On  their  table  were  small  plates,  two  wine  glasses 
half  filled  with  a  pale  liquid,  and  small  coffee-cups.  Spirals 
of  smoke  ascended  over  a  finished  repast.  Of  course  if  the 
part  called  for  cigarettes  you  must  smoke  whether  you  had 
quit  or  not. 

The  places  back  of  the  prized  first  row  were  now  filling 
up  with  the  later  comers.  One  of  these,  a  masterful-looking 
man  of  middle  age — he  would  surely  be  a  wealthy  club-man 
accustomed  to  command  tables — regarded  the  filled  row 
around  the  dancing  space  with  frank  irritation,  and  paused 
significantly  at  Merton's  side.  He  seemed  about  to  voice 
a  demand,  but  the  young  actor  glanced  slowly  up  at  him, 
achieving  a  superb  transition — surprise,  annoyance,  and,  as 
the  invader  turned  quickly  away,  pitying  contempt. 

"Atta  boy!"  said  his  companion,  who  was,  with  the  aid  of 
a  tiny  gold-backed  mirror  suspended  with  the  cigarette  case, 
heightening  the  crimson  of  her  full  lips. 

Two  cameras  were  now  in  view,  and  men  were  sighting 
through  them.  Merton  saw  Henshaw,  plump  but  worried 
looking,  scan  the  scene  from  the  rear.  He  gave  hurried 
direction  to  an  assistant  who  came  down  the  line  of  tables 
with  a  running  glance  at  their  occupants.  He  made  changes. 
A  couple  here  and  a  couple  there  would  be  moved  from  the 
first  row  and  other  couples  would  come  to  take  their  places. 
Under  the  eyes  of  this  assistant  the  Spanish  girl  had  be- 
come coquettish.  With  veiled  glances,  with  flashing  smiles 
from  the  red  lips,  with  a  small  gloved  hand  upon  Merton 
Gill's  sleeve,  she  allured  him.  The  assistant  paused  before 
them.  The  Spanish  girl  continued  to  allure.  Merton  Gill 
stared  moodily  at  the  half-empty  wine  glass,  then  exhaled 
smoke  as  he  glanced  up  at  his  companion  in  profound  ennui. 
If  it  was  The  Blight  of  Broadway  probably  they  would 
want  him  to  look  bored. 


100  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

i 

"You  two  stay  where  you  are,"  said  the  assistant,  and 
passed  on. 

"Good  work,"  said  the  girl.  "I  knew  you  was  a  type  the 
minute  I  made  you." 

Red-coated  musicians  entered  an  orchestra  loft  far  down 
the  set.  The  voice  of  Henshaw  came  through  a  megaphone : 
"Everybody  that's  near  the  floor  fox-trot."  In  a  moment 
the  space  was  thronged  with  dancers.  Another  voice  called 
"Kick  it!"  and  a  glare  of  light  came  on. 

"You  an*  me  both!"  said  the  Spanish  girl,  rising. 

Merton  Gill  remained  seated.  "Can't,"  he  said. 
"Sprained  ankle."  How  was  he  to  tell  her  that  there  had 
been  no  chance  to  learn  this  dance  back  in  Simsbury,  Illinois, 
where  such  things  were  frowned  upon  by  pulpit  and  press? 
The  girl  resumed  her  seat,  at  first  with  annoyance,  then 
brightened.  "All  right  at  that,"  she  said.  "I  bet  we  get 
more  footage  this  way.  She  again  became  coquettish,  luring 
with  her  wiles  one  who  remained  sunk  in  ennui. 

A  whistle  blew,  a  voice  called  "Save  it!"  and  the  lights 
jarred  off.  Henshaw  came  trippingly  down  the  line.  "You 
people  didn't  dance.  What's  the  matter?"  Merton  Gill 
glanced  up,  doing  a  double  transition,  from  dignified  surprise 
to  smiling  chagrin.  "Sprained  ankle,"  he  said,  and  fell 
into  the  bored  look  that  had  served  him  with  the  assistant. 
He  exhaled  smoke  and  raised  his  tired  eyes  to  the  still  luring 
Spanish  girl.  Weariness  of  the  world  and  women  was  in  his 
look.  Henshaw  scanned  him  closely. 

"All  right,  stay  there — keep  just  that  way — it's  what  I 
want."  He  continued  down  the  line,  which  had  become 
hushed.  "Now,  people,  I  want  some  flashes  along  here, 
between  dances — see  what  I  mean?  You're  talking,  but 
you're  bored  with  it  all.  The  hollo wness  of  this  night  life  is 
getting  you;  not  all  of  you — most  of  you  girls  can  keep  on 
smiling — but  The  Blight  of  Broadway  shows  on  many. 
You're  beginning  to  wonder  if  this  is  all  life  has  to  offer — see 
what  I  mean?"  He  continued  down  the  line. 

From  the  table  back  of  Merton  Gill  came  a  voice  in  speech 


UNDER  THE  GLASS  TOPS  101 

to  the  retreating  back  of  Henshaw:  "All  right,  old  top,  but 
it'll  take  a  good  lens  to  catch  any  blight  on  this  bunch — most 
of  'em  haven't  worked  a  lick  in  six  weeks,  and  they're  tickled 
pink."  He  knew  without  turning  that  this  was  the  Montague 
girl  trying  to  be  funny  at  the  expense  of  Henshaw  who  was 
safely  beyond  hearing.  He  thought  she  would  be  a  dis- 
turbing element  in  the  scene,  but  in  this  he  was  wrong,  for  he 
bent  upon  the  wine  glass  a  look  more  than  ever  fraught  with 
jaded  world-weariness.  The  babble  of  Broadway  was  re- 
sumed as  Henshaw  went  back  to  the  cameras. 

Presently  a  camera  was  pushed  forward.  Merton  Gill 
hardly  dared  look  up,  but  he  knew  it  was  halted  at  no  great 
distance  from  him.  "Now,  here's  rather  a  good  little  bit," 
Henshaw  was  saying.  "You,  there,  the  girl  in  black,  go  on — 
tease  him  the  way  you  were,  and  he's  to  give  you  that  same 
look.  Got  that  cigarette  going?  All  ready.  Lights! 
Camera!"  Merton  was  achieving  his  first  close-up.  Under 
the  hum  of  the  lights  he  was  thinking  that  he  had  been  a 
fool  not  to  learn  dancing,  no  matter  how  the  Reverend  Otto 
Carmichael  denounced  it  as  a  survival  from  the  barbaric 
Congo.  He  was  also  thinking  that  the  Montague  girl  ought 
to  be  kept  away  from  people  who  were  trying  to  do  really 
creative  things,  and  he  was  bitterly  regretting  that  he  had  no 
silver  cigarette  case.  The  gloom  of  his  young  face  was 
honest  gloom.  He  was  aware  that  his  companion  leaned 
vivaciously  toward  him  with  gay  chatter  and  gestures. 
Very  slowly  he  inhaled  from  a  cigarette  that  was  already 
distasteful — adding  no  little  to  the  desired  effect — and  very 
slowly  he  exhaled  as  he  raised  to  hers  the  bored  eyes  of  a  soul 
quite  disillusioned.  Here,  indeed,  was  the  blight  of  Broad- 
way. 

"All  right,  first  rate!"  called  Henshaw.  "Now  get  this 
bunch  down  here."  The  camera  was  pushed  on. 

"Gee,  that  was  luck!"  said  the  girl.  "Of  course  it'll  be 
cut  to  a  flash,  but  I  bet  we  stand  out,  at  that."  She  was 
excited  now,  no  longer  needing  to  act. 

From  the  table  back  of  Merton  came  the  voice  of  the 


102  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

Montague  girl:  "Yes,  one  must  suffer  for  one's  art.  Here  I 
got  to  be  a  baby- vamp  when  I'd  rather  be  simple  little 
Madelon,  beloved  by  all  in  the  village." 

He  restrained  an  impulse  to  look  around  at  her.  She  was 
not  serious  and  should  not  be  encouraged.  Farther  down  the 
set  Henshaw  was  beseeching  a  table  of  six  revellers  to  give 
him  a  little  hollow  gayety.  "You're  simply  forcing  your- 
selves to  have  a  good  time,"  he  was  saying;  "remember  that. 
Your  hearts  aren't  in  it.  You  know  this  night  life  is  a 
mockery.  Still,  you're  playing  the  game.  Now,  two  of  you 
raise  your  glasses  to  drink.  You  at  the  end  stand  up  and 
hold  your  glass  aloft.  The  girl  next  to  you  there,  stand  up  by 
him  and  raise  your  face  to  his — turn  sideways  more.  That's 
it.  Put  your  hand  up  to  his  shoulder.  You're  slightly  lit, 
you  know,  and  you're  inviting  him  to  kiss  you  over  his  glass. 
You  others,  you're  drinking  gay  enough,  but  see  if  you  can 
get  over  that  it's  only  half-hearted.  You  at  the  other  end 
there — you're  staring  at  your  wine  glass,  then  you  look 
slowly  up  at  your  partner  but  without  any  life.  You're 
feeling  the  blight,  see?  A  chap  down  the  line  here  just  did  it 
perfectly.  All  ready,  now !  Lights !  Camera !  You  blonde 
girl,  stand  up,  face  raised  to  him,  hand  up  to  his  shoulder. 
You  others,  drinking,  laughing.  You  at  the  end,  look  up 
slowly  at  the  girl,  look  away — about  there — bored,  weary 
of  it  all — cut!  All  right.  Not  so  bad.  Now  this  next 
bunch,  Paul." 

Merton  Gill  was  beginning  to  loathe  cigarettes.  He 
wondered  if  Mr.  Henshaw  would  mind  if  he  didn't  smoke  so 
much,  except,  of  course,  in  the  close-ups.  His  throat  was  dry 
and  rough,  his  voice  husky.  His  companion  had  evidently 
played  more  smoking  parts  and  seemed  not  to  mind  it. 

Henshaw  was  now  opposite  them  across  the  dancing  floor, 
warning  his  people  to  be  gay  but  not  too  gay.  The  glamour 
of  this  night  life  must  be  a  little  dulled. 

"Now,  Paul,  get  about  three  medium  shots  along  here. 
There's  a  good  table — get  that  bunch.  And  not  quite  so 
solemn,  people;  don't  overdo  it.  You  think  you're  having  a 


UNDER  THE  GLASS  TOPS  103 

good  time,  even  if  it  does  turn  to  ashes  in  your  mouth — now, 
ready;  lights!  Camera!" 

"I  like  Western  stuff  better,"  confided  Merton  to  his 
companion.  She  considered  this,  though  retaining  her 
arch  manner.  "Well,  I  don't  know.  I  done  a  Carmencita 
part  in  a  dance-hall  scene  last  month  over  to  the  Bigart,  and 
right  in  the  mi'st  of  the  fight  I  get  a  glass  of  somethin'  all  over 
my  gown  that  practically  rooned  it.  I  guess  I  rather  do  this 
refined  cabaret  stuff — at  least  you  ain't  so  li'ble  to  roon  a 
gown.  Still  and  all,  after  you  been  warmin'  the  extra  bench 
for  a  month  one  can't  be  choosy.  Say,  there's  the  princ'ples 
comin'  on  the  set." 

He  looked  around.  There,  indeed,  was  the  beautiful  Muriel 
Mercer,  radiant  in  an  evening  frock  of  silver.  At  the 
moment  she  was  putting  a  few  last  touches  to  her  perfect  face 
from  a  make-up  box  held  by  a  maid.  Standing  with  her  was 
another  young  woman,  not  nearly  so  beautiful,  and  three 
men.  Henshaw  was  instructing  these.  Presently  he  called 
through  his  megaphone:  "You  people  are  excited  by  the 
entrance  of  the  famous  Vera  Vanderpool  and  her  friends. 
You  stop  drinking,  break  off  your  talk,  stare  at  her — see  what 
I  mean? — she  makes  a  sensation.  Music,  lights,  camera!" 

Down  the  set,  escorted  by  a  deferential  head-waiter,  came 
Muriel  Mercer  on  the  arm  of  a  middle-aged  man  who  was 
elaborately  garnished  but  whose  thin  dyed  mustaches, 
partially  bald  head,  and  heavy  eyes,  proclaimed  him  to 
Merton  Gill  as  one  who  meant  the  girl  no  good.  They  were 
followed  by  the  girl  who  was  not  so  beautiful  and  the  other 
two  men.  These  were  young  chaps  of  pleasing  exterior  who 
made  the  progress  laughingly.  The  five  were  seated  at  a 
table  next  the  dancing  space  at  the  far  end.  They  chatted 
gayly  as  the  older  man  ordered  importantly  from  the  head- 
waiter.  Muriel  Mercer  tapped  one  of  the  younger  men  with 
her  plumed  fan  and  they  danced.  Three  other  selected 
couples  danced  at  the  same  time,  though  taking  care  not  to 
come  between  the  star  and  the  grinding  camera.  The  older 
man  leered  at  the  star  and  nervously  lighted  a  gold-tipped 


104  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

cigarette  which  he  immediately  discarded  after  one  savage 
bite  at  it.  It  could  be  seen  that  Vera  Vanderpool  was  the 
gayest  of  all  that  gay  throng.  Upon  her  as  yet  had  come  no 
blight  of  Broadway,  though  she  shrank  perceptibly  when  the 
partially  bald  one  laid  his  hand  on  her  slender  wrist  as  she 
resumed  her  seat.  Food  and  wine  were  brought.  Vera  Van- 
derpool drank,  with  a  pretty  flourish  of  her  glass. 

Now  the  two  cameras  were  moved  forward  for  close-ups. 
The  older  man  was  caught  leering  at  Vera.  It  would  surely 
be  seen  that  he  was  not  one  to  trust.  Vera  was  caught  with 
the  mad  light  of  pleasure  in  her  beautiful  eyes.  Henshaw 
was  now  speaking  in  low  tones  to  the  group,  and  presently 
Vera  Vanderpool  did  a  transition.  The  mad  light  of  pleasure 
died  from  her  eyes  and  the  smile  froze  on  her  beautiful  mouth. 
A  look  almost  of  terror  came  into  her  eyes,  followed  by  a 
pathetic  lift  of  the  upper  lip.  She  stared  intently  above  the 
camera.  She  was  beholding  some  evil  thing  far  from  that 
palace  of  revels. 

"Now  they'll  cut  back  to  the  tenement-house  stuff  they 
shot  last  week,"  explained  the  Spanish  girl. 

"Tenement  house?"  queried  Merton.  "But  I  thought  the 
story  would  be  that  she  falls  in  love  with  a  man  from  the 
great  wind-swept  spaces  out  West,  and  goes  out  there  to  live 
a  clean  open  life  with  him — that's  the  way  I  thought  it 
would  be — out  there  where  she  could  forget  the  blight  of 
Broadway." 

"No,  Mercer  never  does  Western  stuff.  I  got  a  little  girl 
friend  workin'  with  her  and  she  told  me  about  this  story. 
Mercer  gets  into  this  tenement  house  down  on  the  east  side, 
and  she's  a  careless  society  butterfly;  but  all  at  once  she  sees 
what  a  lot  of  sorrow  there  is  in  this  world  when  she  sees  these 
people  in  the  tenement  house,  starving  to  death,  and  sick 
kids  and  everything,  and  this  little  friend  of  mine  does  an 
Italian  girl  with  a  baby  and  this  old  man  here,  he's  a  rich 
swell  and  prominent  in  Wall  Street  and  belongs  to  all  the 
clubs,  but  he's  the  father  of  this  girl's  child,  only  Mercer  don't 
know  that  yet.  But  she  gets  aroused  in  her  better  nature  by 


UNDER  THE  GLASS  TOPS  105 

the  sight  of  all  this  trouble,  and  she  almost  falls  in  love  with 
another  gentleman  who  devotes  all  his  time  to  relieving  the 
poor  in  these  tenements — it  was  him  who  took  her  there — but 
still  she  likes  a  good  time  as  well  as  anybody,  and  she's 
stickin'  around  Broadway  and  around  this  old  guy  who's 
pretty  good  company  in  spite  of  his  faults.  But  just  now  she 
got  a  shock  at  remembering  the  horrible  sights  she  has  seen; 
she  can't  get  it  out  of  her  mind.  And  pretty  soon  she'll  see 
this  other  gentleman  that  she  nearly  fell  in  love  with,  the  one 
who  hangs  around  these  tenements  doing  good — he'll  be  over 
at  one  of  them  tables  and  she'll  leave  her  party  and  go  over 
to  his  table  and  say,  'Take  me  from  this  heartless  Broadway 
to  your  tenements  where  I  can  relieve  their  suffering,'  so  she 
goes  out  and  gets  in  a  taxi  with  him,  leaving  the  old  guy  with 
not  a  thing  to  do  but  pay  the  check.  Of  course  he's  mad,, 
and  he  follows  her  down  to  the  tenements  where  she's  reliev- 
ing the  poor — just  in  a  plain  black  dress — and  she  finds  out 
he's  the  real  father  of  this  little  friend  of  mine's  child,  and 
tells  him  to  go  back  to  Broadway  while  she  has  chosen  the 
better  part  and  must  live  her  life  with  these  real  people.  But 
he  sends  her  a  note  that's  supposed  to  be  from  a  poor  woman 
dying  of  something,  to  come  and  bring  her  some  medicine* 
and  she  goes  off  alone  to  this  dive  in  another  street,  and  it's 
the  old  guy  himself  who  has  sent  the  note,  and  he  has  her 
there  in  this  cellar  in  his  power.  But  the  other  gentleman 
has  found  the  note  and  has  follered  her,  and  breaks  in  the 
door  and  puts  up  a  swell  fight  with  the  old  guy  and  some 
toughs  he  has  hired,  and  gets  her  off  safe  and  sound,  and  so 
they're  married  and  live  the  real  life  far  away  from  the  blight 
of  Broadway.  It's  a  swell  story,  all  right,  but  Mercer  can't 
act  it.  This  little  friend  of  mine  can  act  all  around  her. 
She'd  be  a  star  if  only  she  was  better  lookin'.  You  bet 
Mercer  don't  allow  any  lookers  on  the  same  set  with  her. 
Do  you  make  that  one  at  the  table  with  her  now?  Just  got 
looks  enough  to  show  Mercer  off.  Mercer's  swell-lookin', 
I'll  give  her  that,  but  for  actin' — say,  all  they  need  in  a  piece 
for  her  is  just  some  stuff  to  go  in  between  her  close-ups. 


106  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

Don't  make  much  difference  what  it  is.  Oh,  look!  There 
comes  the  dancers.  It's  Luzon  and  Mario." 

Merton  Gill  looked.  These  would  be  hired  dancers  to 
entertain  the  pleasure-mad  throng,  a  young  girl  with  vine 
leaves  in  her  hair  and  a  dark  young  man  of  barbaric  appear- 
ance. The  girl  was  clad  in  a  mere  whisp  of  a  girdle  and 
shining  breast  plates,  while  the  man  was  arrayed  chiefly  in  a 
coating  of  dark  stain.  They  swirled  over  the  dance  floor  to 
the  broken  rhythm  of  the  orchestra,  now  clinging,  now  apart, 
working  to  a  climax  in  which  the  man  poised  with  his  partner 
perched  upon  one  shoulder.  Through  the  megaphone  came 
instructions  to  applaud  the  couple,  and  Broadway  applauded 
— all  but  Merton  Gill,  who  stared  moodily  into  his  coffee  cup 
or  lifted  bored  eyes  to  the  scene  of  revelry.  He  was  not 
bored,  but  his  various  emotions  combined  to  produce  this 
effect  very  plausibly.  He  was  dismayed  at  this  sudden 
revelation  of  art  in  the  dance  so  near  him.  Imogene  Pulver 
had  once  done  an  art  dance  back  in  Simsbury,  at  the  cantata 
of  Esther  in  the  vestry  of  the  Methodist  church,  and  had  been 
not  a  little  criticised  for  her  daring;  but  Imogene  had  been 
abundantly  clad,  and  her  gestures  much  more  restrained. 
He  was  trying  now  to  picture  how  Gashwiler  w^ould  take  a 
thing  like  this,  or  Mrs.  Gashwiler,  for  that  matter!  One 
glimpse  of  those  practically  unclad  bodies  skipping  and 
bounding  there  would  probably  throw  them  into  a  panic. 
They  couldn't  have  sat  it  through.  And  here  he  was,  right 
up  in  front  of  them,  and  not  turning  a  hair. 

This  reflection  permitted  something  of  the  contemptuous 
to  show  in  the  random  glances  with  which  he  swept  the 
dancers.  He  could  not  look  at  them  steadily,  not  when  they 
were  close,  as  they  often  were.  Also,  he  loathed  the  cigarette 
he  was  smoking.  The  tolerant  scorn  for  the  Gashwilers  and 
his  feeling  for  the  cigarette  brought  him  again  into  favourable 
notice.  He  heard  Henshaw,  but  did  not  look  up. 

"Get  another  flash  here,  Paul.  He's  rather  a  good  little 
bit."  Henshaw  now  stood  beside  him.  "Hold  that,"  he 
said.  "No,  wait."  He  spoke  to  Merton 's  companion. 


UNDER  THE  GLASS  TOPS  107 

"  You  change  seats  a  minute  with  Miss  Montague,  as  if  you'd 
got  tired  of  him — see  what  I  mean?  Miss  Montague — Miss 
Montague."  The  Spanish  girl  arose,  seeming  not  wholly 
pleased  at  this  bit  of  directing.  The  Montague  girl  came  to 
the  table.  She  was  a  blithesome  sprite  in  a  salmon-pink 
dancing  frock.  Her  blonde  curls  fell  low  over  one  eye  which 
she  now  cocked  inquiringly  at  the  director. 

"You're  trying  to  liven  him  up,"  explained  Henshaw. 
"  That's  all— baby-vamp  him.  He'll  do  the  rest.  He's  quite 
a  good  little  bit." 

The  Montague  girl  flopped  into  the  chair,  leaned  roguishly 
toward  Merton  Gill,  placed  a  small  hand  upon  the  sleeve  of 
his  coat  and  peered  archly  at  him  through  beaded  lashes,  one 
eye  almost  hidden  by  its  thatch  of  curls.  Merton  Gill  sunk 
low  in  his  chair,  cynically  tapped  the  ash  from  his  tenth 
cigarette  into  the  coffee  cup  and  raised  bored  eyes  to  hers. 

"That's  it— shoot  it,  Paul,  just  a  flash." 

The  camera  was  being  wheeled  toward  them.  The  Monta- 
gue girl,  with  her  hand  still  on  his  arm,  continued  her  whee- 
dling, though  now  she  spoke. 

"Why,  look  who's  here.  Kid,  I  didn't  know  you  in  your 
stepping-out  clothes.  Say,  listen,  why  do  you  always  up- 
stage me?  I  never  done  a  thing  to  you,  did  I?  Go  on,  now, 
give  me  the  fishy  eye  again.  How'd  you  ace  yourself  into  this 
first  row,  anyway?  Did  you  have  to  fight  for  it?  Say,  your 
friend'll  be  mad  at  me  putting  her  out  of  here,  won't  she? 
Well,  blame  it  on  the  gelatin  master.  I  never  suggested  it. 
Say,  you  got  Henshaw  going.  He  likes  that  blighted  look  of 
yours." 

He  made  no  reply  to  this  chatter.  He  must  keep  in  the 
picture.  He  merely  favoured  her  with  a  glance  of  fatigued 
indifference.  The  camera  was  focused. 

"All  ready,  you  people.  Do  like  I  said,  now.  Lights, 
camera!" 

)  Merton  Gill  drew  upon  his  cigarette  with  the  utmost  dis- 
relish, raised  the  cold  eyes  of  a  disillusioned  man  to  the  face 
of  the  leering  Montague  girl,  turned  aside  from  her  with  every 


108  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

sign  of  apathy,  and  wearily  exhaled  the  smoke.  There 
seemed  to  be  but  this  one  pleasure  left  to  him. 

"Cut!"  said  Henshaw,  and  somewhere  lights  jarred  off. 
"Just  stick  there  a  bit,  Miss  Montague.  We'll  have  a  couple 
more  shots  when  the  dancing  begins." 

Merton  resented  this  change.  He  preferred  the  other  girl. 
She  lured  him  but  not  in  so  pronounced,  so  flagrant  a  manner. 
The  blight  of  Broadway  became  more  apparent  than  ever 
upon  his  face.  The  girl's  hand  still  fluttered  upon  his  sleeve 
as  the  music  came  and  dancers  shuffled  by  them. 

"Say,  you're  the  actin'  kid,  all  right."  She  was  tapping 
the  floor  with  the  heel  of  a  satin  slipper.  He  wished  above 
all  things  that  she  wouldn't  call  him  "Kid."  He  meditated 
putting  a  little  of  Broadway's  blight  upon  her  by  saying  in  a 
dignified  way  that  his  real  name  was  Clifford  Armytage. 
Still,  this  might  not  blight  her — you  couldn't  tell  about  the 
girl. 

"You  certainly  are  the  actin'est  kid  on  this  set,  I'll  tell  the 
lot  that.  Of  course  these  close-ups  won't  mean  much,  just 
about  one  second,  or  half  that  maybe.  Or  some  hick  in  the 
cuttin*  room  may  kill  'em  dead.  Come  on,  give  me  the 
fish-eye  again.  That's  it.  Say,  I'm  glad  I  didn't  have  to 
smoke  cigarettes  in  this  scene.  They  wouldn't  do  for  my  type, 
standin'  where  the  brook  and  river  meet  up.  I  hate  a  ciga- 
rette worse'n  anything.  You — I  bet  you'd  give  up  food  first." 

"I  hate  'em,  too,"  he  muttered  grudgingly,  glad  to  be  able 
to  say  this,  even  though  only  to  one  whose  attentions  he 
meant  to  discourage.  "If  I  have  to  smoke  one  more  it'll 
finish  me." 

"Now,  ain't  that  the  limit?    Too  bad,  Kid!" 

"I  didn't  even  have  any  of  my  own.  That  Spanish  girl 
gave  me  these." 

The  Montague  girl  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the  young 
woman  whose  place  she  had  usurped.  "Spanish,  eh?  If 
she's  Spanish  I'm  a  Swede  right  out  of  Switzerland.  Any- 
way, I  never  could  like  to  smoke.  I  started  to  learn  one 
summer  when  I  was  eight.  Pa  and  Ma  and  I  was  out  with  a 


UNDER  THE  GLASS  TOPS  109 

tent  Tom-show,  me  doing  Little  Eva,  and  between  acts  I  had 
to  put  on  pants  and  come  out  and  do  a  smoking  song,  all 
about  a  kid  learning  to  smoke  his  first  cigar  and  not  doin'  well 
with  it,  see?  But  they  had  to  cut  it  out.  Gosh,  what  us 
artists  suffer  at  times!  Pa  had  me  try  it  a  couple  of  years 
later  when  I  was  doin'  Louise  the  blind  girl  in  the  Two 
Orphans,  playin'  thirty  cents  top.  It  was  a  good  song,  all 
right,  with  lots  of  funny  gags.  I'd  'a'  been  the  laughing  hit  of 
the  bill  if  I  could  'a'  learned  not  to  swallow.  We  had  to  cut 
it  out  again  after  the  second  night.  Talk  about  entering 
into  your  part.  Me?  I  was  too  good." 

If  the  distant  camera  glanced  this  way  it  caught  merely 
the  persistent  efforts  of  a  beautiful  debutante  who  had  not 
yet  felt  the  blight  of  Broadway  to  melt  the  cynicism  of  one 
who  suffered  it  more  and  more  acutely  each  moment.  Her 
hand  fluttered  on  his  sleeve  and  her  left  eye  continuously 
beguiled  him  from  under  the  overhanging  curl.  As  often  as 
he  thought  it  desirable  he  put  the  bored  glance  upon  her, 
though  mostly  he  stared  in  dejection  at  the  coffee  cup  or  the 
empty  wine  glass.  He  was  sorry  that  she  had  had  that 
trouble  with  the  cigar,  but  one  who  as  Little  Eva  or  poor 
persecuted  Louise,  the  blind  girl,  had  to  do  a  song  and  dance 
between  the  acts  must  surely  come  from  a  low  plane  of  art. 
He  was  relieved  when,  at  megaphoned  directions,  an  elderly 
fop  came  to  whirl  her  off  in  the  dance.  Her  last  speech  was : 
"That  poor  Henshaw — the  gelatin  master '11  have  megaphone- 
lip  by  to-night." 

He  was  left  alone  at  his  table.  He  wondered  if  they  might 
want  a  close-up  of  him  this  way,  uncompanioned,  jaded,  tired 
of  it  all, as  if  he  would  be  saying:  "There's  always  the  river!" 
But  nothing  of  this  sort  happened.  There  was  more  dancing, 
more  close-ups  of  Muriel  Mercer  being  stricken  with  her 
vision  of  tenement  misery  under  the  foul  glare  of  a  middle- 
aged  roue  inflamed  with  wine.  And  there  was  a  shot  of 
Muriel  perceiving  at  last  the  blight  of  Broadway  and  going 
to  a  table  at  which  sat  a  pale,  noble-looking  young  man  with 
a  high  forehead,  who  presently  led  her  out  into  the  night  to 


110  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

the  real  life  of  the  worthy  poor.  Later  the  deserted  admirer 
became  again  a  roue  inflamed  with  wine  and  submitted  to  a 
close-up  that  would  depict  his  baffled  rage.  He  clenched  his 
hands  in  this  and  seemed  to  convey,  with  a  snarling  lift  of  his 
lip,  that  the  girl  would  yet  be  his.  Merton  Gill  had  ceased  to 
smoke.  He  had  sounded  on  Broadway  even  the  shallow 
pleasure  of  cigarettes.  He  was  thoroughly  blighted. 

At  last  a  megaphoned  announcement  from  the  assistant 
director  dismissing  the  extras,  keeping  the  star,  the  lead,  and 
a  few  small-part  people,  to  clean  up  medium  shots,  "dra- 
matics," and  other  work  requiring  no  crowd.  "All  you  extra 
people  here  to-morrow  morning,  eight-thirty,  same  clothes 
and  make-up."  There  was  a  quick  breaking  up  of  the 
revelry.  The  Broadway  pleasure-seekers  threw  off  the 
blight  and  stormed  the  assistant  director  for  slips  of  paper 
which  he  was  now  issuing.  Merton  Gill  received  one, 
labelled  "Talent  check."  There  was  fine  print  upon  it  which 
he  took  no  pains  to  read,  beyond  gathering  its  general  effect 
that  the  Victor  Film-art  Company  had  the  full  right  to  use 
any  photographs  of  him  that  its  agents  might  that  day  have 
obtained.  What  engrossed  him  to  the  exclusion  of  this  legal 
formality  was  the  item  that  he  would  now  be  paid  seven 
dollars  and  fifty  cents  for  his  day's  work — and  once  he  had 
been  forced  to  toil  half  a  week  for  this  sum !  Emerging  from 
the  stage  into  the  sunlight  he  encountered  the  Montague  girl 
who  hailed  him  as  he  would  have  turned  to  avoid  her. 

"Say,  trouper,  I  thought  I'd  tell  you  in  case  you  didn't 
know — we  don't  take  our  slips  to  that  dame  in  that  outside 
cafeteria  any  more.  She  always  pinches  off  a  quarter  or 
maybe  four  bits.  They  got  it  fixed  now  so  the  cash  is  always 
on  tap  in  the  office.  I  just  thought  I'd  tell  you." 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  still  with  the  jaded  air  of  the  dis- 
illusioned. He  had  only  the  vaguest  notion  of  her  meaning, 
but  her  intention  had  been  kindly.  "  Thank  you  very  much." 

"Oh,  don't  mention  it.  I  just  thought  I'd  tell  you."  She 
glanced  after  him  shrewdly. 

Nearing  the  office  he  observed  a  long  line  of  Broadway 


UNDER  THE  GLASS  TOPS  111 

revellers  waiting  to  cash  their  slips.  Its  head  was  lost  inside 
the  building  and  it  trailed  far  outside.  No  longer  was  any 
blight  to  be  perceived.  The  slips  were  ready  in  hand. 
Instead  of  joining  the  line  Merton  decided  upon  luncheon. 
It  was  two  o'clock,  and  though  waiters  with  trays  had  been 
abundant  in  the  gilded  cabaret,  the  best  screen  art  had  not 
seemed  to  demand  a  serving  of  actual  food.  Further,  he 
would  eat  in  the  cafeteria  in  evening  dress,  his  make-up  still 
on,  like  a  real  actor.  The  other  time  he  had  felt  conspicuous 
because  nothing  had  identified  him  with  the  ordinary  clientele 
of  the  place. 

The  room  was  not  crowded  now.  Only  a  table  here  and 
there  held  late  comers,  and  the  choice  of  foods  when  he 
reached  the  serving  counter  at  the  back  was  limited.  He 
permitted  himself  to  complain  of  this  in  a  pract'sed  manner, 
but  made  a  selection  and  bore  his  tray  to  the  centre  of  the 
room.  He  had  chosen  a  table  and  was  about  to  sit,  when  he 
detected  Henshaw  farther  down  the  room,  and  promptly  took 
the  one  next  him.  It  was  probable  that  Henshaw  would 
recall  him  and  praise  the  work  he  had  done.  But  the  di- 
rector merely  rolled  unseeing  eyes  over  him  as  he  seated  him- 
self, and  continued  his  speech  to  the  man  Merton  had  before 
seen  him  with,  the  grizzled  dark  man  with  the  stubby  gray 
mustache  whom  he  called  Governor.  Merton  wondered  if 
he  could  be  the  governor  of  California,  but  decided  not. 
Perhaps  an  ex-governor. 

"She's  working  out  well,"  he  was  saying.  "I  consider  it 
one  of  the  best  continuities  Belmore  has  done.  Not  a  line  of 
smut  in  it,  but  to  make  up  for  that  we'll  have  over  thirty 
changes  of  costume." 

Merton  Gill  coughed  violently,  then  stared  moodily  at 
his  plate  of  baked  beans.  He  hoped  that  this,  at  least,  would 
recall  him  to  Henshaw  who  might  fix  an  eye  on  him  to  say : 
"And,  by  the  way,  here  is  a  young  actor  that  was  of  great 
help  to  me  this  morning."  But  neither  man  even  glanced 
up.  Seemingly  this  young  actor  could  choke  to  death  with- 
out exciting  their  notice.  He  stared  less  moodily  at  the 


112  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

baked  beans.  Henshaw  would  notice  him  sometime,  and  you 
couldn't  do  everything  at  once. 

The  men  had  finished  their  luncheon  and  were  smoking. 
The  animated  Henshaw  continued  his  talk.  "And  about 
that  other  thing  we  were  discussing,  Governor,  I  want  to  go 
into  that  with  you.  I  tell  you  if  we  can  do  Robinson  Crusoe, 
and  do  it  right,  a  regular  five-thousand-foot  program  feature, 
the  thing  ought  to  gross  a  million.  A  good,  clean,  censor- 
proof  picture — great  kid  show,  run  forever.  Shipwreck  stuff, 
loading  the  raft,  island  stuff,  hut  stuff,  goats,  finding  the  foot- 
print, cannibals,  the  man  Friday — can't  you  see  it?" 

The  Governor  seemed  to  see  it.  "Fine — that's  so!"  He 
stared  above  the  director's  head  for  the  space  of  two  inha- 
lations from  his  cigarette,  imbuing  Merton  Gill  with  gratitude 
that  he  need  not  smoke  again  that  day.  "  But  say,  look  here, 
how  about  your  love  interest?" 

Henshaw  waved  this  aside  with  his  own  cigarette  and 
began  to  make  marks  on  the  back  of  an  envelope.  "Easy 
enough — Belmore  can  fix  that  up.  We  talked  over  one  or 
two  ways.  How  about  having  Friday's  sister  brought  over 
with  him  to  this  island?  The  cannibals  are  going  to  eat  her, 
too.  Then  the  cannibals  run  to  their  canoes  when  they  hear 
the  gun,  just  the  same  as  in  the  book.  And  Crusoe  rescues 
the  two.  And  when  he  cuts  the  girl's  bonds  he  finds  she 
can't  be  Friday's  real  sister,  because  she's  white — see  what  I 
mean?  Well,  we  work  it  out  later  that  she's  the  daughter  of 
an  English  Earl  that  was  wrecked  near  the  cannibal  island, 
and  they  rescued  her,  and  Friday's  mother  brought  her  up  as 
her  own  child.  She's  saved  the  papers  that  came  ashore,  and 
she  has  the  Earl's  coat-of-arms  tattooed  on  her  shoulder 
blade,  and  finally,  after  Crusoe  has  fallen  in  love  with  her,  and 
she's  remembered  a  good  deal  of  her  past,  along  comes  the 
old  Earl,  her  father,  in  a  ship  and  rescues  them  all.  How 
about  that?"  Henshaw,  brightly  expectant,  awaited  the 
verdict  of  his  chief. 

"  Well— I  don't  know."  The  other  considered.  "  Where's 
your  conflict,  after  the  girl  is  saved  from  the  savages?  And 


UNDER  THE  GLASS  TOPS  113 

Crusoe  in  the  book  wears  a  long  beard.  How  about  that? 
He  won't  look  like  anything — sort  of  hairy,  and  that's 
all." 

Henshaw  from  the  envelope  on  which  he  drew  squares  and 
oblongs  appeared  to  gain  fresh  inspiration.  He  looked  up 
with  new  light  in  his  eyes.  "I  got  it — got  the  whole  thing. 
Modernize  it.  This  chap  is  a  rich  young  New  Yorker,  cruis- 
ing on  his  yacht,  and  he's  wrecked  on  this  island  and  gets  a 
lot  of  stuff  ashore  and  his  valet  is  saved,  too — say  there's  some 
good  comedy,  see  what  I  mean? — valet  is  one  of  these  stiff 
English  lads,  never  been  wrecked  on  an  island  before  and 
complains  all  the  time  about  the  lack  of  conveniences.  I  can 
see  a  lot  of  good  gags  for  him,  having  to  milk  the  goats,  and 
getting  scared  of  the  other  animals,  and  no  place  to  press  his 
master's  clothes — things  like  that,  you  know.  Well,  the 
young  fellow  explores  the  island  and  finds  another  party 
that's  been  wrecked  on  the  other  side,  and  it's  the  girl  and  the 
man  that  got  her  father  into  his  power  and  got  all  of  his 
estate  and  is  going  to  make  beggars  of  them  if  the  girl  won't 
marry  him,  and  she  comes  on  the  young  fellow  under  some 
palms  and  they  fall  in  love  and  fix  it  up  to  double-cross  the 
villain — Belmore  can  work  it  out  from  there.  How  about 
that?  And  say,  we  can  use  a  lot  of  trims  from  that  South 
Sea  piece  we  did  last  year,  all  that  yacht  and  island  stuff — see 
what  I  mean?" 

The  other  considered  profoundly.  "Yes,  you  got  a  story 
there,  but  it  won't  be  Robinson  Crusoe,  don't  you  see?" 

Again  Henshaw  glanced  up  from  his  envelope  with  the  light 
of  inspiration.  "Well,  how  about  this?  Call  it  Robinson 
Crusoe,  Junior!  There  you  are.  We  get  the  value  of  the 
name  and  do  the  story  the  way  we  want  it,  the  young  fellow 
being  shaved  every  day  by  the  valet,  and  he  can  invite  the 
other  party  over  to  dine  with  him  and  receive  them  in  even- 
ing dress  and  everything.  Can't  you  see  it?  If  that  story 
wouldn't  gross  big  then  I  don't  know  a  story.  And  all  easy 
stuff.  We  can  use  the  trims  for  the  long  shots,  and  use  that 
inlet  toward  the  other  end  of  Catalina  for  the  hut  and  the 


114  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

beach;  sure-fire  stuff,  Governor — and  Robinson  Crusoe, 
Junior  is  a  cinch  title." 

"Well,  give  Belmore  as  much  dope  as  you've  got,  and  see 
what  he  can  work  out." 

They  arose  and  stood  by  the  counter  to  pay  their  checks. 

"If  you  want  to  see  the  rushes  of  that  stuff  we  shot  this 
morning  be  over  to  the  projection  room  at  five,"  said  Hen- 
shaw  as  they  went  out.  Neither  had  observed  the  rising 
young  screen  actor,  Clifford  Armytage,  though  he  had 
coughed  violently  again  as  they  left.  He  had  coughed  most 
plausibly,  moreover,  because  of  the  cigarettes. 

At  the  cashier's  window,  no  longer  obstructed,  he  received 
his  money,  another  five-dollar  bill  adorned  with  the  cheerfully 
prosperous  face  of  Benjamin  Harrison  and  half  that  amount 
in  silver  coin.  Then,  although  loath  to  do  this,  he  went  to  the 
dressing  room  and  removed  his  make-up.  That  grease  paint 
had  given  him  a  world  of  confidence. 

At  the  casting  office  he  stopped  to  tell  his  friend  of  the 
day's  camera  triumph,  how  the  director  had  seemed  to  single 
him  out  from  a  hundred  or  so  revellers  to  portray  facially  the 
deadly  effect  of  Broadway's  night  life. 

"Good  work!"  she  applauded.  "Before  long  you'll  be 
having  jobs  oftener.  And  don't  forget,  you're  called  again 
to-morrow  morning  for  the  gambling-house  scene." 

She  was  a  funny  woman;  always  afraid  he  would  forget 
something  he  could  not  possibly  forget.  Once  more  in  the 
Patterson  kitchen  he  pressed  his  suit  and  dreamt  of  new 
eminences  in  his  chosen  art. 

The  following  morning  he  was  again  the  first  to  reach  the 
long  dressing  room,  the  first  to  be  made  up  by  the  grumbling 
extra,  the  first  to  reach  the  big  stage.  The  cabaret  of  yester- 
day had  overnight  been  transformed  into  a  palatial  gambling 
hell.  Along  the  sides  of  the  room  and  at  its  centre  were 
tables  equipped  for  strange  games  of  chance  which  only  his 
picture  knowledge  enabled  him  to  recognize.  He  might  tarry 
at  these  tables,  he  thought,  but  he  must  remember  to  look 
bored  in  the  near  presence  of  Henshaw.  The  Spanish  girl  of 


UNDER  THE  GLASS  TOPS  115 

yesterday  appeared  and  he  greeted  her  warmly.  "  I  got  some 
cigarettes  this  time,"  he  said,  "so  let  me  pay  you  back  all 
those  I  smoked  of  yours  yesterday."  Together  they  filled  the 
golden  case  that  hung  from  her  girdle. 

"It's  swell,  all  right,"  said  the  girl,  gazing  about  the  vast 
room  now  filling  with  richly  clad  gamblers. 

"  But  I  thought  it  was  all  over  except  the  tenement-house 
scenes  where  Vera  Vanderpool  has  gone  to  relieve  the  poor," 
he  said. 

The  girl  explained.  "This  scene  comes  before  the  one  we 
did  yesterday.  It's  where  the  rich  old  boy  first  sees  Vera 
playing  roulette,  and  she  loses  a  lot  of  money  and  is  going  to 
leave  her  string  of  pearls,  but  he  says  it's  a  mere  trifle  and  let 
him  pay  her  gambling  losses,  so  in  a  weak  moment  she  does, 
and  that's  how  he  starts  to  get  her  into  his  power.  You'll  see 
how  it  works  out.  Say,  they  spent  some  money  on  this  set, 
all  right." 

It  was  indeed  a  rich  set,  as  the  girl  had  said.  It  seemed 
to  Merton  Gill  that  it  would  be  called  on  the  screen  "One  of 
those  Plague  Spots  that  Eat  like  a  Cancer  at  the  Heart  of  New 
York."  He  lighted  a  cigarette  and  leaned  nonchalantly 
against  a  pillar  to  smile  a  tired  little  smile  at  the  pleasure- 
mad  victims  of  this  life  who  were  now  grouping  around  the 
roulette  and  faro  tables.  He  must  try  for  his  jaded  look. 

"Some  swell  shack!"  The  speaker  was  back  of  him,  but 
he  knew  her  for  the  Montague  girl,  and  was  instantly  enabled 
to  increase  the  blighted  look  for  which  he  had  been  trying. 
"One  natty  little  hovel,  I'll  tell  the  world,"  the  girl  continued. 
"Say,  this  puts  it  all  over  the  Grand  Central  station,  don't 
it?  Must  be  right  smack  at  the  corner  of  Broadway  and 
Fifth  Avenue.  Well,  start  the  little  ball  rolling,  so  I  can  make 
a  killing."  He  turned  his  head  slightly  and  saw  her  dance  off 
to  one  of  the  roulette  tables,  accompanied  by  the  middle-aged 
fop  who  had  been  her  companion  yesterday. 

Henshaw  and  his  assistant  now  appeared  and  began  group- 
ing the  players  at  the  various  tables.  Merton  Gill  remained 
leaning  wearily  against  his  massive  pillar,  trying  to  appear 


116  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

blase  under  the  chatter  of  the  Spanish  girl.  The  groups 
were  arranged  to  the  liking  of  Henshaw,  though  only  after 
many  trials.  The  roulette  ball  was  twirled  and  the  lively 
rattle  of  chips  could  be  heard.  Scanning  his  scene,  he  noted 
Merton  and  his  companion. 

"Oh,  there  you  are,  you  two.  Sister,  you  go  and  stand 
back  of  that  crowd  around  the  faro  table.  Keep  craning  to 
look  over  their  shoulders,  and  give  us  your  side  view.  I 
want  to  use  this  man  alone.  Here."  He  led  Merton  to  a 
round  table  on  which  were  a  deck  of  cards  and  some  neatly 
stacked  chips.  "Sit  here,  facing  the  camera.  Keep  one 
hand  on  the  cards,  sort  of  toying  with  'em,  see  what  I  mean?  " 

He  scattered  the  piled  chips  loosely  about  the  table,  and 
called  to  a  black  waiter:  "Here,  George,  put  one  of  those 
wine  glasses  on  his  left." 

The  wine  glass  was  placed.  "Now  kind  of  slump  down  in 
your  chair,  like  you  saw  the  hollowness  of  it  all — see  what  I 
mean?" 

Merton  Gill  thought  he  saw.  He  exhaled  smoke,  toyed 
contemptuously  with  the  cards  at  his  right  hand  and,  with  a 
gesture  of  repulsion,  pushed  the  wine  glass  farther  away. 
He  saw  the  hollowness  of  it  all.  The  spirit  of  wine  sang  in  his 
glass  but  to  deaf  ears.  Chance  could  no  longer  entice  him. 
It  might  again  have  been  suspected  that  cigarettes  were  ceas- 
ing to  allure. 

"Good  work!  Keep  it  up,"  said  Henshaw  and  went  back 
to  his  cameras. 

The  lights  jarred  on ;  desperate  gaming  was  filmed.  "  More 
life  at  the  roulette  tables,"  megaphoned  Henshaw.  "  Crowd 
closer  around  that  left-hand  faro  table.  You're  playing  for 
big  stakes."  The  gaming  became  more  feverish.  The  mad 
light  of  pleasure  was  in  every  eye,  yet  one  felt  that  the  blight 
of  Broadway  was  real. 

The  camera  was  wheeled  forward  and  Merton  Gill  joyously 
quit  smoking  while  Henshaw  secured  flashes  of  various 
groups,  chiefly  of  losers  who  were  seeing  the  hollowness  of  it 
all.  He  did  not,  however,  disdain  a  bit  of  comedy. 


UNDER  THE  GLASS  TOPS  117 

"Miss  Montague." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Henshaw."  The  Montague  girl  paused  in  the 
act  of  sprinkling  chips  over  a  roulette  lay-out. 

"Your  escort  has  lost  all  his  chips  and  you've  lost  all  he 
bought  for  you " 

The  girl  and  her  escort  passed  to  other  players  the  chips 
before  them,  and  waited. 

"Your  escort  takes  out  his  wallet,  shows  it  to  you  empty, 
and  shrugs  his  shoulders.  You  shrug,  too,  but  turn  your 
back  on  him,  facing  the  camera,  and  take  some  bills  out  of 
your  stocking — see  what  I  mean?  Give  her  some  bills,  some- 
one." 

"Never  mind,  Mr.  Henshaw;  I  already  got  some  there." 
The  pantomime  was  done,  the  girl  turned,  stooped,  withdrew 
flattened  bills  from  one  of  the  salmon-pink  stockings  and 
flourished  them  at  her  escort  who  achieved  a  transition  from 
gloom  to  joy.  Merton  Gill,  observing  this  shameless  pro- 
cedure, plumbed  the  nether  depths  of  disgust  for  Broadway's 
night  life. 

The  camera  was  now  wheeled  toward  him  and  he  wearily 
lighted  another  cigarette.  "  Get  a  flash  of  this  chap,"  Hen- 
shaw was  saying.  The  subject  leaned  forward  in  his  chair, 
gazing  with  cynical  eyes  at  the  fevered  throng.  Wine, 
women,  song,  all  had  palled.  Gambling  had  no  charm — he 
looked  with  disrelish  at  the  cigarette  he  had  but  just  lighted. 

"All  right,  Paul,  that's  good.  Now  get  that  bunch  over 
at  the  crap  table." 

Merton  Gill  lost  no  time  in  relinquishing  his  cigarette. 
He  dropped  it  into  the  wine  glass  which  became  a  symbol  of 
Broadway's  dead-sea  fruit.  Thereafter  he  smoked  only 
when  he  was  in  the  picture.  He  felt  that  he  was  becoming 
screen  wise.  And  Henshaw  had  remembered  him.  The  cast 
of  The  Blight  of  Broadway  might  not  be  jewelled  with  his 
name,  but  his  work  would  stand  out.  He  had  given  the  best 
that  was  in  him. 

He  watched  the  entrance  of  Muriel  Mercer,  maddest  of  all 
the  mad  throng,  accompanied  by  the  two  young  men  and  the 


118  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

girl  who  was  not  so  beautiful.  He  watched  her  lose  steadily, 
and  saw  her  string  of  pearls  saved  by  the  elderly  scoundrel 
who  had  long  watched  the  beautiful  girl  as  only  the  Wolf  of 
Wall  Street  could  watch  one  so  fair.  He  saw  her  leave  upon 
his  arm,  perhaps  for  further  unwholesome  adventure  along 
Broadway.  The  lights  were  out,  the  revelry  done. 

Merton  Gill  beyond  a  doubt  preferred  Western  stuff,  some 
heart-gripping  tale  of  the  open  spaces,  or  perhaps  of  the 
frozen  north,  where  he  could  be  the  hard-riding,  straight- 
shooting,  two-fisted  wonder-man,  and  not  have  to  smoke  so 
many  cigarettes — only  one  now  and  then,  which  he  would 
roll  himself  and  toss  away  after  a  few  puffs.  Still,  he  had 
shown  above  the  mob  of  extra  people,  he  thought.  Hen- 
shaw  had  noticed  him.  He  was  coming  on. 

The  Montague  girl  hailed  him  as  he  left  the  set.  "Hullo, 
old  trouper.  I  caught  you  actin'  again  to-day,  right  out 
before  the  white  folks.  Well,  so  far  so  good.  But  say,  I'm 
glad  all  that  roulette  and  stuff  was  for  the  up-and-down  stage 
and  not  on  the  level.  I'd  certainly  have  lost  everything  but 
my  make-up.  So  long,  Kid!"  She  danced  off  to  join  a 
group  of  other  women  who  were  leaving.  He  felt  a  kindly 
pity  for  the  child.  There  could  be  little  future  in  this  diffi- 
cult art  for  one  who  took  it  so  lightly;  who  talked  so  frankly 
to  strangers  without  being  introduced. 

At  luncheon  in  the  cafeteria  he  waited  a  long  time  in  the 
hope  of  encountering  Henshaw,  who  would  perhaps  command 
his  further  services  in  the  cause  of  creative  screen  art.  He 
meant  to  be  animated  at  this  meeting,  to  show  the  director 
that  he  could  be  something  more  than  an  actor  who  had 
probed  the  shams  of  Broadway.  But  he  lingered  in  vain. 
He  thought  Henshaw  would  perhaps  be  doing  without  food 
in  order  to  work  on  the  scenario  for  Robinson  Crusoe,  Junior. 

He  again  stopped  to  thank  his  friend,  the  casting  director, 
for  securing  him  his  first  chance.  She  accepted  his  thanks 
smilingly,  and  asked  him  to  drop  around  often.  "Mind,  you 
don't  forget  our  number,"  she  said. 

He  was  on  the  point  of  making  her  understand  once  for  all 


UNDER  THE  GLASS  TOPS  119 

that  he  would  not  forget  the  number,  that  he  would  never  for- 
get Gashwiler's  address,  that  he  had  been  coming  to  this 
studio  too  often  to  forget  its  location.  But  someone  engaged 
her  at  the  window,  so  he  was  obliged  to  go  on  without  en- 
lightening the  woman.  She  seemed  to  be  curiously  dense. 


CHAPTER  VII 

"NOTHING  TO-DAY,  DEAR!" 

THE  savings  had  been  opportunely  replenished.  In 
two  days  he  had  accumulated  a  sum  for  which,  back  in 
Simsbury,  he  would  have  had  to  toil  a  week.  Yet 
there  was  to  be  said  in  favour  of  the  Simsbury  position  that  it 
steadily  endured.  Each  week  brought  its  fifteen  dollars, 
pittance  though  it  might  be,  while  the  art  of  the  silver  screen 
was  capricious  in  its  rewards,  not  to  say  jumpy.  Never,  for 
weeks  at  a  stretch,  had  Gashwiler  said  with  a  tired  smile, 
"Nothing  to-day — sorry!"  He  might  have  been  a  grouch 
and  given  to  unreasonable  nagging,  but  with  him  there  was 
always  a  very  definite  something  to-day  which  he  would 
specify,  in  short  words  if  the  occasion  seemed  to  demand. 
There  was  not  only  a  definite  something  every  day  but  a 
definite  if  not  considerable  sum  of  money  to  be  paid  over 
every  Saturday  night,  and  in  the  meantime  three  very 
definite  and  quite  satisfying  meals  to  be  freely  partaken  of  at 
stated  hours  each  day. 

The  leisure  enforced  by  truly  creative  screen  art  was  often 
occupied  now  with  really  moving  pictures  of  Metta  Judson 
placing  practicable  food  upon  the  Gashwiler  table.  This  had 
been  no  table  in  a  gilded  Broadway  resort,  holding  empty 
coffee  cups  and  half  empty  wine  glasses,  passed  and  re- 
passed  by  apparently  busy  waiters  with  laden  trays  who 
never  left  anything  of  a  practicable  nature.  Doubtless  the 
set  would  not  have  appealed  to  Henshaw.  He  would  never 
have  been  moved  to  take  close-ups,  even  for  mere  flashes,  of 
those  who  ate  this  food.  And  yet,  more  and  more  as  the  days 
went  by,  this  old-time  film  would  unreel  itself  before  the 

120 


"NOTHING  TO-DAY,  DEAR!"  121 

eager  eyes  of  Merton  Gill.  Often  now  it  thrilled  him  as 
might  have  an  installment  of  The  Hazards  of  Hortense,for  the 
food  of  his  favourite  pharmacy  was  beginning  to  pall  and 
Metta  Judson,  though  giving  her  shallow  mind  to  base  village 
gossip,  was  a  good  cook.  She  became  the  adored  heroine  of 
an  apparently  endless  serial  to  be  entitled  The  Hazards  of 
Clifford  Armytage,  in  which  the  hero  had  tragically  little  to 
do  but  sit  upon  a  bench  and  wait  while  tempting  repasts  were 
served. 

Sometimes  on  the  little  bench  around  the  eucalyptus  tree 
he  would  run  an  entire  five-thousand-foot  program  feature, 
beginning  with  the  Sunday  midday  dinner  of  roast  chicken, 
and  abounding  in  tense  dramatic  moments  such  as  corned- 
beef  and  cabbage  on  Tuesday  night,  and  corned-beef  hash  on 
Wednesday  morning.  He  would  pause  to  take  superb  close- 
ups  of  these,  the  corned  beef  on  its  spreading  platter  hemmed 
about  with  boiled  potatoes  and  turnips  and  cabbage,  and  the 
corned  beef  hash  with  its  richly  browned  surface.  The  thrill- 
ing climax  would  be  the  roast  of  beef  on  Saturday  night,  with 
close-ups  taken  in  the  very  eye  of  the  camera,  of  the  mashed 
potatoes  and  the  apple  pie  drenched  with  cream.  And  there 
were  close-ups  of  Metta  Judson,  who  had  never  seriously 
contemplated  a  screen  career,  placing  upon  the  table  a  tower 
of  steaming  hot  cakes,  while  a  platter  of  small  sausages 
loomed  eloquently  in  the  foreground. 

With  eyes  closed  he  would  run  this  film  again  and  again, 
cutting  here,  rearranging  sequences,  adding  trims  from 
suddenly  remembered  meals  of  the  dead  past,  devising  more 
intimate  close-ups,  such  as  the  one  of  Metta  withdrawing  pies 
from  the  oven  or  smoothing  hot  chocolate  caressingly  over 
the  top  of  a  giant  cake,  or  broiling  chops,  or  saying  in  a 
large-lettered  subtitle — artistically  decorated  with  cooked 
foods — "How  about  some  hot  coffee,  Merton?" 

He  became  an  able  producer  of  this  drama.  He  devised 
a  hundred  sympathetic  little  touches  that  Henshaw  would 
probably  never  have  thought  of.  He  used  footage  on  a  mere 
platter  of  steak  that  another  director  might  have  ignored 


MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

utterly.  He  made  it  gripping — the  supreme  heart-interest 
drama  of  his  season  a  big  thing  done  in  a  big  way,  and  yet 
censor-proof.  Not  even  the  white-souled  censors  of  the 
great  state  of  Pennsylvania  could  have  outlawed  its  realism, 
brutal  though  this  was  in  such  great  moments  as  when  Gash- 
wiler  carved  the  roast  beef.  So  able  was  his  artistry  that 
Mer ton's  nostrils  would  sometimes  betray  him — he  could 
swear  they  caught  rich  aromas  from  that  distant  board. 

Not  only  had  the  fare  purveyed  by  his  favourite  pharmacy 
put  a  blight  upon  him  equal  to  Broadway's  blight,  but  even 
of  this  tasteless  stuff  he  must  be  cautious  in  his  buying.  A 
sandwich,  not  too  meaty  at  the  centre,  coffee  tasting  strangely 
of  other  things  sold  in  a  pharmacy,  a  segment  of  pie  fair- 
seeming  on  its  surface,  but  lacking  the  punch,  as  he  put  it,  of 
Metta  Judson's  pie,  a  standardized,  factory-made,  alto- 
gether formal  and  perfunctory  pie — these  were  the  meagre 
items  of  his  accustomed  luncheon  and  dinner. 

He  had  abandoned  breakfast,  partly  because  it  cost  money 
and  partly  because  a  gentleman  in  eastern  Ohio  had  recently 
celebrated  his  hundred  and  third  birthday  by  reason,  so  he 
confided  to  the  press,  of  having  always  breakfasted  upon  a 
glass  of  clear  cold  water.  Probably  ham  and  eggs  or  corned- 
beef  hash  would  have  cut  him  off  at  ninety,  and  water  from 
the  tap  in  the  Patterson  kitchen  was  both  clear  and  cold.  It 
was  not  so  much  that  he  cared  to  live  beyond  ninety  or  so,but 
he  wished  to  survive  until  things  began  to  pick  up  on  the 
Holden  lot,  and  if  this  did  bring  him  many  more  years,  well 
and  good.  Further,  if  the  woman  in  the  casting  office  per- 
sisted, as  she  had  for  ten  days,  in  saying  "Nothing  yet"  to 
inquiring  screen  artists,  he  might  be  compelled  to  intensify 
the  regime  of  the  Ohio  centenarian.  Perhaps  a  glass  of 
clear  cold  water  at  night,  after  a  hearty  midday  meal  of  drug- 
store sandwiches  and  pie,  would  work  new  wonders. 

It  seemed  to  be  the  present  opinion  of  other  waiters  on  the 
extra  bench  that  things  were  never  going  to  pick  up  on  the 
Holden  lot  nor  on  any  other  lot.  Strongly  marked  types, 
ready  to  add  distinction  to  the  screen  of  painted  shadows, 


"NOTHING  TO-DAY,  DEAR!"  123 

freely  expressed  a  view  that  the  motion-picture  business  was 
on  the  rocks.  Unaffected  by  the  optimists  who  wrote  in  the 
picture  magazines,  they  saw  no  future  for  it.  More  than  one 
of  them  threatened  to  desert  the  industry  and  return  to 
previous  callings.  As  they  were  likely  to  put  it,  they  were 
going  to  leave  the  pictures  flat  and  go  back  to  type-writing  or 
selling  standard  art-works  or  waiting  on  table  or  something 
where  you  could  count  on  your  little  bit  every  week. 

Under  the  eucalyptus  tree  one  morning  Merton  Gill,  mak- 
ing some  appetizing  changes  in  the  fifth  reel  of  Eating  at 
Gashwiler's,  was  accosted  by  a  youngish  woman  whom  he 
could  not  at  first  recall.  She  had  come  from  the  casting  office 
and  paused  when  she  saw  him. 

"Hello,  I  thought  it  was  you,  but  I  wasn't  sure  in  them 
clothes.  How  they  coming?" 

He  stared  blankly,  startled  at  the  sudden  transposition  he 
had  been  compelled  to  make,  for  the  gleaming  knife  of  Gash- 
wiler,  standing  up  to  carve,  had  just  then  hovered  above  the 
well-browned  roast  of  beef.  Then  he  placed  the  speaker  by 
reason  of  her  eyes.  It  was  the  Spanish  girl,  his  companion 
of  the  gilded  cabaret,  later  encountered  in  the  palatial  gam- 
bling hell  that  ate  like  a  cancer  at  the  heart  of  New  York — 
probably  at  the  corner  of  Broadway  and  Fifth  Avenue. 

He  arose  and  shook  hands  cordially.  He  had  supposed, 
when  he  thought  of  the  girl  at  all,  that  she  would  always  be 
rather  Spanish,  an  exotic  creature  rather  garishly  dressed, 
nervously  eager,  craving  excitement  such  as  may  be  had  in 
cabarets  on  Broadway,  with  a  marked  inclination  for  the 
lighter  life  of  pleasure.  But  she  wore  not  so  much  as  a  rose 
in  her  smoothly  combed  hair.  She  was  not  only  not  excited 
but  she  was  not  exciting.  She  was  plainly  dressed  in  skirt 
and  shirtwaist  of  no  distinction,  her  foot-gear  was  of  the 
most  ordinary,  and  well  worn,  and  her  face  under  a  hat  of 
no  allure  was  without  make-up,  a  commonplace,  somewhat 
anxious  face  with  lines  about  the  eyes.  But  her  voice  as  well 
as  her  eyes  helped  him  to  recall  her. 

She  spoke  with  an  effort  at  jauntiness  after  Merton  had 


124  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

greeted  her.  "That's  one  great  slogan,  'Business  as  Usual!' 
ain't  it?  Well,  it's  business  as  usual  here,  so  I  just  found  out 
from  the  Countess — as  usual,  rotten.  I  ain't  had  but  three 
days  since  I  seen  you  last." 

"I  haven't  had  even  one,"  he  told  her. 

"No?  Say,  that's  tough.  You're  registered  with  the 
Service  Bureau,  ain't  you?" 

"Well,  I  didn't  do  that,  because  they  might  send  me  any 
place,  and  I  sort  of  wanted  to  work  on  this  particular  lot." 
Instantly  he  saw  himself  saving  Beulah  Baxter,  for  the  next 
installment,  from  a  fate  worse  than  death,  but  the  one-time 
Spanish  girl  did  not  share  this  vision. 

"Oh,  well,  little  I  care  where  I  work.  I  had  two  days  at 
the  Bigart  in  a  hop-joint  scene,  and  one  over  at  the  United 
doin'  some  board-walk  stuff.  I  could  'a'  had  another  day 
there,  but  the  director  said  I  wasn't  just  the  type  for  a 
chick  bathing -suit.  He  was  very  nice  about  it.  Of  course 
I  know  my  legs  ain't  the  best  part  of  me — I  sure  ain't  one 
of  them  like  the  girl  that  says  she's  wasted  in  skirts."  She 
grinned  ruefully. 

He  felt  that  some  expression  of  sympathy  would  be  grace- 
ful here,  yet  he  divined  that  it  must  be  very  discreetly,  al- 
most delicately,  worded.  He  could  easily  be  too  blunt. 

"I  guess  I'd  be  pretty  skinny  in  a  bathing-suit  myself, 
right  now.  I  know  they  won't  be  giving  me  any  such  part 
pretty  soon  if  I  have  to  cut  down  on  the  meals  the  way  I  been 
doing." 

"Oh,  of  course  I  don't  mean  I'm  actually  skinny " 

He  felt  he  had  been  blunt,  after  all. 

"Not  to  say  skinny,"  she  went  on,  "but — well,  you  know — 
more  like  home-folks,  I  guess.  Anyway,  I  got  no  future  as 
a  bathing  beauty — none  whatever.  And  this  walkin'  around 
to  the  different  lots  ain't  helpin'  me  any,  either.  Of  course 
it  ain't  as  if  I  couldn't  go  back  to  the  insurance  office.  Mr. 
Gropp,  he's  office  manager,  he  was  very  nice  about  it.  He 
says,  'I  wish  you  all  the  luck  in  the  world,  girlie,  and  re- 
member your  job  as  filin'  clerk  will  always  be  here  for  you.' 


"NOTHING  TO-DAY,  DEAR!"  125 

Wasn't  that  gentlemanly  of  him?  Still,  I'd  rather  act  than 
stand  on  my  feet  all  day  filing  letters.  I  won't  go  back 
till  I  have  to." 

"Me  either,"  said  Merton  Gill,  struggling  against  the  ob- 
session of  Saturday-night  dinner  at  Gashwiler's. 

Grimly  he  resumed  his  seat  when  the  girl  with  a  friendly 
"So  long!"  had  trudged  on.  In  spite  of  himself  he  found 
something  base  in  his  nature  picturing  his  return  to  the 
emporium  and  to  the  thrice-daily  encounter  with  Metta 
Judson's  cookery.  He  let  his  lower  instincts  toy  with  the  un- 
worthy vision.  Gashwiler  would  advance  him  the  money 
to  return,  and  the  job  would  be  there.  Probably  Spencer 
Grant  -  had  before  this  tired  of  the  work  and  gone  into  in- 
surance or  some  other  line,  and  probably  Gashwiler  would 
be  only  too  glad  to  have  the  wanderer  back.  He  would  get 
off  No.  3  just  in  time  for  breakfast. 

He  brushed  the  monstrous  scene  from  his  eyes,  shrugged 
it  from  his  shoulders.  He  would  not  give  up.  They  had 
all  struggled  and  sacrificed,  and  why  should  he  shrink  from 
the  common  ordeal?  But  he  wished  the  Spanish  girl  hadn't 
talked  about  going  back  to  her  job.  He  regretted  not 
having  stopped  her  with  words  of  confident  cheer  that  would 
have  stiffened  his  own  resolution.  He  could  see  her  far 
down  the  street,  on  her  way  to  the  next  lot,  her  narrow 
shoulders  switching  from  light  to  shadow  as  she  trudged 
under  the  line  of  eucalyptus  trees.  He  hoped  she  wouldn't 
give  up.  No  one  should  ever  give  up — least  of  all  Merton 
Gill. 

The  days  wore  wearily  on.  He  began  to  feel  on  his  own 
face  the  tired  little  smile  of  the  woman  in  the  casting  office 
as  she  would  look  up  to  shake  her  head,  often  from  the 
telephone  over  which  she  was  saying:  "Nothing  to-day,  dear. 
Sorry!"  She  didn't  exactly  feel  that  the  motion  picture 
business  had  gone  on  the  rocks,  but  she  knew  it  wasn't  pick- 
ing up  as  it  should.  And  ever  and  again  she  would  have 
Merton  Gill  assure  her  that  he  hadn't  forgotten  the  home 
address,  the  town  where  lived  Gighampton  or  Gumwash  or 


126  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

whoever  it  was  that  held  the  good  old  job  open  for  him.  He 
had  divined  that  it  was  a  jest  of  some  sort  when  she  warned 
him  not  to  forget  the  address  and  he  would  patiently  smile 
at  this,  but  he  always  put  her  right  about  the  name  of  Gash- 
wiler.  Of  course  it  was  a  name  any  one  might  forget,  though 
the  woman  always  seemed  to  make  the  most  earnest  effort 
to  remember  it. 

Each  day,  after  his  brief  chat  with  her  in  which  he  learned 
that  there  would  be  nothing  to-day,  he  would  sit  on  the 
waiting-room  bench  or  out  under  the  eucalyptus  tree  and 
consecrate  himself  anew  to  the  art  of  the  perpendicular  screen. 
And  each  day,  as  the  little  hoard  was  diminished  by  even 
those  slender  repasts  at  the  drug  store,  he  ran  his  film  of  the 
Gashwiler  dining  room  in  action. 

From  time  to  time  he  would  see  the  Montague  girl,  alone 
or  with  her  mother,  entering  the  casting  office  or  perhaps 
issuing  from  the  guarded  gate.  He  avoided  her  when 
possible.  She  persisted  in  behaving  as  if  they  had  been 
properly  introduced  and  had  known  each  other  a  long  time. 
She  was  too  familiar,  and  her  levity  jarred  upon  his  more 
serious  mood.  So  far  as  he  could  see,  the  girl  had  no  screen 
future,  though  doubtless  she  was  her  own  worst  enemy.  If 
someone  had  only  taught  her  to  be  serious,  her  career  might 
have  been  worth  while.  She  had  seemed  not  wholly  negli- 
gible in  the  salmon-pink  dancing  frock,  though  of  course 
the  blonde  curls  had  not  been  true. 

Then  the  days  passed  until  eating  merely  at  a  drug-store 
lunch  counter  became  not  the  only  matter  of  concern.  There 
was  the  item  of  room  rent.  Mrs.  Patterson,  the  Los  Angeles 
society  woman,  had,  upon  the  occasion  of  their  first  inter- 
view, made  it  all  too  clear  that  the  money,  trifling  though 
it  must  seem  for  a  well-furnished  room  with  the  privilege  of 
electric  iron  in  the  kitchen,  must  be  paid  each  week  in  ad- 
vance. Strictly  in  advance.  Her  eye  had  held  a  cold 
light  as  she  dwelt  upon  this. 

There  had  been  times  lately  when,  upon  his  tree  bench, 
he  would  try  to  dramatize  Mrs.  Patterson  as  a  woman  with 


"NOTHING  TO-DAY,  DEAR!"  127 

a  soft  heart  under  that  polished  society  exterior,  chilled  by 
daily  contact  with  other  society  people  at  the  Iowa  or  Kan- 
sas or  other  society  picnics,  yet  ready  to  melt  at  the  true 
human  touch.  But  he  had  never  quite  succeeded  in  this 
bit  of  character  work.  Something  told  him  that  she  was 
cold  all  through,  a  society  woman  without  a  flaw  in  her 
armour.  He  could  not  make  her  seem  to  listen  patiently 
while  he  explained  that  only  one  company  was  now  shooting 
on  the  lot,  but  that  big  things  were  expected  to  be  on  in  an- 
other week  or  so.  A  certain  skeptic  hardness  was  in  her 
gaze  as  he  visioned  it. 

He  decided,  indeed,  that  he  could  never  bring  himself 
even  to  attempt  this  scene  with  the  woman,  so  remote  was 
he  from  seeing  her  eye  soften  and  her  voice  warm  with  the 
assurance  that  a  few  weeks  more  or  less  need  not  matter. 
The  room  rent,  he  was  confident,  would  have  to  be  paid 
strictly  in  advance  so  long  as  their  relations  continued.  She 
was  the  kind  who  would  insist  upon  this  formality  even 
after  he  began  to  play,  at  an  enormous  salary,  a  certain  out- 
standing part  in  the  Hazards  of  Hortense.  The  exigencies, 
even  the  adversities,  of  art  would  never  make  the  slightest 
appeal  to  this  hardened  soul.  So  much  for  that.  And  daily 
the  hoard  waned. 

Yet  his  was  not  the  only  tragedy.  In  the  waiting  room, 
where  he  now  spent  more  of  his  time,  he  listened  one  day  to 
the  Montague  girl  chat  through  the  window  with  the  woman 
she  called  Countess. 

"Yeah,  Pa  was  double-crossed  over  at  the  Bigart.  He 
raised  that  lovely  set  of  whiskers  for  Camillia  of  the  Cumber- 
lands  and  what  did  he  get  for  it? — just  two  weeks.  Fact! 
What  do  you  know  about  that?  Hugo  has  him  killed  off 
in  the  second  spool  with  a  squirrel  rule  from  ambush,  and  Pa 
thinking  he  would  draw  pay  for  at  least  another  three  weeks. 
He  kicked,  but  Hugo  says  the  plot  demanded  it.  I  bet,  at 
that,  he  was  just  trying  to  cut  down  his  salary  list.  I  bet 
that  continuity  this  minute  shows  Pa  drinking  his  corn 
likker  out  of  a  jug  and  playing  a  fiddle  for  the  dance  right 


128  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

down  to  the  last  scene.  Don't  artists  get  the  razz,  though. 
And  that  Hugo,  he'd  spend  a  week  in  the  hot  place  to  save 
a  thin  dime.  Let  me  tell  you,  Countess,  don't  you  ever  get 
your  lemon  in  his  squeezer." 

There  were  audible  murmurs  of  sympathy  from  the 
Countess. 

"And  so  the  old  trouper  had  to  start  out  Monday  morn- 
ing to  peddle  the  brush.  Took  him  three  days  to  land  any- 
thing at  all,  and  then  it's  nothing  but  a  sleeping  souse  in  a 
Western  bar-room  scene.  In  here  now  he  is — something  the 
Acme  people  are  doing.  He's  had  three  days,  just  lying  down 
with  his  back  against  a  barrel  sleeping.  He's  not  to  wake 
up  even  when  the  fight  starts,  but  sleep  right  on  through  it, 
which  they  say  will  be  a  good  gag.  Well,  maybe.  But  it's 
tough  on  his  home.  He  gets  all  his  rest  daytimes  and  keeps 
us  restless  all  night  making  a  new  kind  of  beer  and  tending 
his  still,  and  so  on.  You  bet  Ma  and  I,  the  minute  he's 
through  with  this  piece,  are  going  pronto  to  get  that  face  of 
his  as  naked  as  the  day  he  was  born.  Pa's  so  temperamental 
— like  that  time  he  was  playing  a  Bishop  and  never  touched 
a  drop  for  five  weeks,  and  in  bed  every  night  at  nine-thirty. 
Me?  Oh,  I'm  having  a  bit  of  my  own  in  this  Acme  piece — 
God's  Great  Outdoors,  I  think  it  is — anyway,  I'm  to  be  a 
little  blonde  hussy  in  the  bar-room,  sitting  on  the  miners' 
knees  and  all  like  that,  so  they'll  order  more  drinks.  It 
certainly  takes  all  kinds  of  art  to  make  an  artist.  And  next 
week  I  got  some  shipwreck  stuff  for  Baxter,  and  me  with 
bronchial  pneumonia  right  this  minute,  and  hating  tank 
stuff,  anyway.  Well,  Countess,  don't  take  any  counterfeit 
money.  S'long!" 

She  danced  through  a  doorway  and  was  gone — she  was  one 
who  seldom  descended  to  plain  walking.  She  would  manage 
a  dance  step  even  in  the  short  distance  from  the  casting- 
office  door  to  the  window.  It  was  not  of  such  material, 
Merton  Gill  was  sure,  that  creative  artists  were  moulded. 

And  there  was  no  question  now  of  his  own  utter  serious- 
ness. The  situation  hourly  grew  more  desperate.  For  a 


"NOTHING  TO-DAY,  DEAR!" 

week  he  had  foregone  the  drug-store  pie,  so  that  now  he 
recalled  it  as  very  wonderful  pie  indeed,  but  he  dared  no 
longer  indulge  in  this  luxury.  An  occasional  small  bag  of 
candy  and  as  much  sugar  as  he  could  juggle  into  his  coffee 
must  satisfy  his  craving  for  sweets.  Stoically  he  awaited 
the  end — some  end.  The  moving-picture  business  seemed 
to  be  still  on  the  rocks,  but  things  must  take  a  turn. 

He  went  over  the  talk  of  the  Montague  girl.  Her  father 
had  perhaps  been  unfairly  treated,  but  at  least  he  was  work- 
ing again.  And  there  were  other  actors  who  would  go  un- 
shaven for  even  a  sleeping  part  in  the  bar-room  scene  of 
God's  Great  Outdoors.  Merton  Gill  knew  one,  and  rubbed 
his  shaven  chin.  He  thought,  too,  of  the  girl's  warning 
about  counterfeit  money.  He  had  not  known  that  the 
casting  director's  duties  required  her  to  handle  money,  but 
probably  he  had  overlooked  this  item  in  her  routine.  And 
was  counterfeit  money  about?  He  drew  out  his  own  re- 
maining bill  and  scrutinized  it  anxiously.  It  seemed  to  be 
genuine.  He  hoped  it  was,  for  Mrs.  Patterson's  sake,  and 
was  relieved  when  she  accepted  it  without  question  that  night. 

Later  he  tested  the  handful  of  silver  that  remained  to 
him  and  prayed  earnestly  that  an  increase  of  prosperity  be 
granted  to  producers  of  the  motion  picture.  With  the 
silver  he  eked  out  another  barren  week,  only  to  face  a  day 
the  evening  of  which  must  witness  another  fiscal  transaction 
with  Mrs.  Patterson.  And  there  was  no  longer  a  bill  for 
this  heartless  society  creature.  He  took  a  long  look  at  the 
pleasant  little  room  as  he  left  it  that  morning.  The  day 
must  bring  something  but  it  might  not  bring  him  back  that 
night. 

At  the  drug  store  he  purchased  a  bowl  of  vegetable  soup, 
loaded  it  heavily  with  catsup  at  intervals  when  the  attendant 
had  other  matters  on  his  mind,  and  seized  an  extra  half- 
portion  of  crackers  left  on  their  plate  by  a  satiated  neighbour. 
He  cared  little  for  catsup,  but  it  doubtless  bore  nourishing 
elements,  and  nourishment  was  now  important.  He  crum- 
pled his  paper  napkin  and  laid  upon  the  marble  slab  a  trifling 


130  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

silver  coin.  It  was  the  last  of  his  hoard.  When  he  should 
eat  next  and  under  what  circumstances  were  now  as  un- 
certain as  where  he  should  sleep  that  night,  though  he  was 
already  resolving  that  catsup  would  be  no  part  of  his  meal. 
It  might  be  well  enough  in  its  place,  but  he  had  abundantly 
proved  that  it  was  not,  strictly  speaking,  a  food. 

He  reached  the  Holden  studios  and  loitered  outside  for 
half  an  hour  before  daring  the  daily  inquiry  at  the  window. 
Yet,  when  at  last  he  did  approach  it,  his  waning  faith  in 
prayer  was  renewed,  for  here  in  his  direst  hour  was  cheering 
news.  It  seemed  even  that  his  friend  beyond  the  window  had 
been  impatient  at  his  coming. 

"Just  like  you  to  be  late  when  there's  something  doing!'* 
she  called  to  him  with  friendly  impatience.  "Get  over  to  the 
dressing  rooms  on  the  double-quick.  It's  the  Victor  people 
doing  some  Egyptian  stuff — they'll  give  you  a  costume. 
Hurry  along!" 

And  he  had  lingered  over  a  bowl  of  soggy  crackers  soaked, 
at  the  last,  chiefly  in  catsup!  He  hurried,  with  a  swift  word 
of  thanks. 

In  the  same  dressing  room  where  he  had  once  been  made 
up  as  a  Broadway  pleasure  seeker  he  now  donned  the  flowing 
robe  and  burnoose  of  a  Bedouin,  and  by  the  same  grumbling 
extra  his  face  and  hands  were  stained  the  rich  brown  of 
children  of  the  desert.  A  dozen  other  men  of  the  paler  race 
had  undergone  the  same  treatment.  A  sheik  of  great 
stature  and  noble  mien  smoked  an  idle  cigarette  in  the  door- 
way. He  was  accoutred  with  musket  and  with  pistols 
in  his  belt. 

An  assistant  director  presently  herded  the  desert  men  down 
an  alley  between  two  of  the  big  stages  and  to  the  beginning 
of  the  oriental  street  that  Merton  had  noticed  on  his  first 
day  within  the  Holden  walls.  It  was  now  peopled  pic- 
turesquely with  other  Bedouins.  Banners  hung  from  the 
walls  and  veiled  ladies  peeped  from  the  latticed  balconies. 
A  camel  was  led  excitingly  through  the  crowded  way,  and 
donkeys  and  goats  were  to  be  observed.  It  was  a  noisy 


"NOTHING  TO-DAY,  DEAR!"  131 

street  until  a  whistle  sounded  at  the  farther  end,  then  all 
was  silence  while  the  voice  of  Henshaw  came  through  the 
megaphone. 

It  appeared  that  long  shots  of  the  street  were  Henshaw's 
first  need.  Up  and  down  it  Merton  Gill  strolled  in  a  negli- 
gent manner,  stopping  perhaps  to  haggle  with  the  vendor 
who  sold  sweetmeats  from  a  tray,  or  to  chat  with  a  tribal 
brother  fresh  from  the  sandy  wastes,  or  to  purchase  a  glass 
of  milk  from  the  man  with  the  goats.  He  secured  a  rose 
from  the  flower  seller,  and  had  the  inspiration  to  toss  it  to 
one  of  the  discreet  balconies  above  him,  but  as  he  stepped 
back  to  do  this  he  was  stopped  by  the  watchful  assistant 
director  who  stood  just  inside  a  doorway.  "Hey,  Bill,  none 
of  that!  Keep  your  head  down,  and  pay  no  attention  to  the 
dames.  It  ain't  done." 

He  strolled  on  with  the  rose  in  his  hand.  Later,  and 
much  nearer  the  end  of  the  street  where  the  cameras  were, 
he  saw  the  sheik  of  noble  mien  halt  the  flower  seller,  haggle 
for  another  rose,  place  this  daintily  behind  his  left  ear  and 
stalk  on,  his  musket  held  over  one  shoulder,  his  other  hand 
on  a  belted  pistol.  Merton  disposed  of  his  rose  in  the  same 
manner.  He  admired  the  sheik  for  his  stature,  his  majestic 
carriage,  his  dark,  handsome,  yet  sinister  face  with  its 
brooding  eyes.  He  thought  this  man,  at  least,  would  be  a 
true  Arab,  some  real  son  of  the  desert  who  had  wandered 
afar.  His  manner  was  so  much  more  authentic  than  that 
of  the  extra  people  all  about. 

A  whistle  blew  and  the  street  action  was  suspended. 
There  was  a  long  wait  while  cameras  were  moved  up  and 
groups  formed  under  the  direction  of  Henshaw  and  his 
assistant.  A  band  of  Bedouins  were  now  to  worship  in 
the  porch  of  a  mosque.  Merton  Gill  was  among  these.  The 
assistant  director  initiated  them  briefly  into  Moslem  rites. 
Upon  prayer  rugs  they  bowed  their  foreheads  to  earth  in  the 
direction  of  Mecca. 

"What's  the  idea  of  this  here?"  demanded  Merton  Gill's 
neighbour  in  aggrieved  tones. 


132  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"Ssh!"  cautioned  Merton.  "It's  Mass  or  something  like 
that."  And  they  bent  in  unison  to  this  noon-tide  devotion. 

When  this  was  done  Henshaw  bustled  into  the  group. 
"I  want  about  a  dozen  or  fifteen  good  types  for  the  cafe," 
he  explained  to  his  assistant.  Merton  Gill  instinctively 
stood  forward,  and  was  presently  among  those  selected. 
"Vou'll  do,"  said  Henshaw,  nodding.  The  director,  of 
course,  had  not  remembered  that  this  was  the  actor  he  had 
distinguished  in  The  Blight  of  Broadway,  yet  he  had  again 
chosen  him  for  eminence.  It  showed,  Merton  felt,  that 
his  conviction  about  the  screen  value  of  his  face  was  not 
ill  founded. 

The  selected  types  were  now  herded  into  a  dark,  narrow, 
low-ceiled  room  with  a  divan  effect  along  its  three  walls. 
A  grizzled  Arab  made  coffee  over  a  glowing  brazier.  Merton 
Gill  sat  cross-legged  on  the  divan  and  became  fearful  that 
he  would  be  asked  to  smoke  the  narghileh  which  the  assist- 
ant director  was  now  preparing.  To  one  who  balked  at 
mere  cigarettes,  it  was  an  evil-appearing  device.  His 
neighbour  who  had  been  puzzled  at  prayer-time  now  hitched 
up  his  flowing  robe  to  withdraw  a  paper  of  cigarettes  from 
the  pocket  of  a  quite  occidental  garment. 

"Go  on,  smoke  cigarettes,"  said  the  assistant  director. 

"Have  one?"  said  Merton's  neighbour,  and  he  took  one. 
It  seemed  you  couldn't  get  away  from  cigarettes  on  the  screen. 
East  and  West  were  here  one.  He  lighted  it,  though  smoking 
warily.  The  noble  sheik,  of  undoubtedly  Asiatic  origin,  came 
to  the  doorway  overlooking  the  assistant  director's  work  on 
the  narghileh.  A  laden  camel  halted  near  him,  sneered 
in  an  evil  manner  at  the  bystanders,  and  then,  lifting  an 
incredible  length  of  upper  lip,  set  his  yellow  teeth  in  the 
nearest  shoulder.  It  was  the  shoulder  of  the  noble  sheik, 
who  instantly  rent  the  air  with  a  plaintive  cry:  "For  the 
love  of  Mike! — keep  that  man-eater  off'n  me,  can't  you?" 

His  accent  had  not  been  that  of  the  Arabian  waste-land. 
Merton  Gill  was  disappointed.  So  the  fellow  was  only  an 
actor,  after  all.  If  he  had  felt  sympathy  at  all,  it  would  now 


"NOTHING  TO-DAY,  DEAR!"  133 

have  been  for  the  camel.  The  beast  was  jerked  back  with 
profane  words  and  the  sheik,  rubbing  his  bitten  shoulder, 
entered  the  cafe,  sitting  cross-legged  at  the  end  of  the  divan 
nearest  the  door. 

"All  right,  Bob."  The  assistant  director  handed  him 
the  tube  of  the  water  pipe,  and  the  sheik  smoked  with  every 
sign  of  enjoyment.  Merton  Gill  resolved  never  to  play 
the  part  of  an  Arab  sheik — at  the  mercy  of  man-eating  cam- 
els and  having  to  smoke  something  that  looked  murderous. 

Under  Henshaw's  direction  the  grizzled  proprietor  now 
served  tiny  cups  of  coffee  to  the  sheik  and  his  lesser  patrons. 
Two  of  these  played  dominoes,  and  one  or  two  reclined  as 
in  sleep.  Cameras  were  brought  up.  The  interior  being 
to  his  satisfaction,  Henshaw  rehearsed  the  entrance  of  a 
little  band  of  European  tourists.  A  beautiful  girl  in  sports 
garb,  a  beautiful  young  man  in  khaki  and  puttees,  a  fine  old 
British  father  with  gray  side  whiskers  shaded  by  a  sun-hat 
with  a  flowing  veil  twined  about  it.  These  people  sat  and 
were  served  coffee,  staring  in  a  tourist  manner  at  their  novel 
surroundings.  The  Bedouins,  under  stern  command,  ig- 
nored them,  conversing  among  themselves  over  their  coffee — 
all  but  the  sheik. 

The  sheik  had  been  instantly  struck  by  the  fair  young 
English  girl.  His  sinister  eyes  hung  constantly  upon  her, 
shifting  only  when  she  regarded  him,  furtively  returning 
when  she  ceased.  When  they  left  the  cafe,  the  sheik  arose 
and  placed  himself  partly  in  the  girl's  way.  She  paused 
while  his  dark  eyes  caught  and  held  hers.  A  long  moment 
went  before  she  seemed  able  to  free  herself  from  the  hypnotic 
tension  he  put  upon  her.  Then  he  bowed  low,  and  the  girl 
with  a  nervous  laugh  passed  him. 

It  could  be  seen  that  the  sheik  meant  her  no  good.  He 
stepped  to  the  door  and  looked  after  the  group.  There  was 
evil  purpose  in  his  gaze. 

Merton  Gill  recalled  something  of  Henshaw's  words  the 
first  day  he  had  eaten  at  the  cafeteria:  "They  find  this 
deserted  tomb  just  at  nightfall,  and  he's  alone  there  with 


134  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

the  girl,  and  he  could  do  anything,  but  the  kick  for  the 
audience  is  that  he's  a  gentleman  and  never  lays  a  finger  on 
her." 

This  would  be  the  story.  Probably  the  sheik  would  now 
arrange  with  the  old  gentleman  in  the  sun-hat  to  guide  the 
party  over  the  desert,  and  would  betray  them  in  order  to 
get  the  beautiful  girl  into  his  power.  Of  course  there  would 
be  a  kick  for  the  audience  when  the  young  fellow  proved 
to  be  a  gentleman  in  the  deserted  tomb  for  a  whole  night — • 
any  moving-picture  audience  would  expect  him  under  these 
propitious  circumstances  to  be  quite  otherwise,  if  the  girl 
were  as  beautiful  as  this  one.  But  there  would  surely  be  a 
greater  kick  when  the  sheik  found  them  in  the  tomb  and 
bore  the  girl  off  on  his  camel,  after  a  fight  in  which  the 
gentleman  was  momentarily  worsted.  But  the  girl  would 
be  rescued  in  time.  And  probably  the  piece  would  be  called 
Desert  Passion. 

He  wished  he  could  know  the  ending  of  the  story.  Indeed 
he  sincerely  wished  he  could  work  in  it  to  the  end,  not  alone 
because  he  was  curious  about  the  fate  of  the  young  girl  in  the 
bad  sheik's  power.  Undoubtedly  the  sheik  would  not  prove 
to  be  a  gentleman,  but  Merton  would  like  to  work  to  the  end 
of  the  story  because  he  had  no  place  to  sleep  and  but  little 
assurance  of  wholesome  food.  Yet  this,  it  appeared,  was 
not  to  be.  Already  word  had  run  among  the  extra  people. 
Those  hired  to-day  were  to  be  used  for  to-day  only.  To- 
morrow the  desert  drama  would  unfold  without  them. 

Still,  he  had  a  day's  pay  coming.  This  time,  though, 
it  would  be  but  five  dollars — his  dress  suit  had  not  been 
needed.  And  five  dollars  would  appease  Mrs.  Patterson 
for  another  week.  Yet  what  would  be  the  good  of  sleeping 
if  he  had  nothing  to  eat?  He  was  hungry  now.  Thin  soup, 
ever  so  plenteously  spiced  with  catsup,  was  inadequate  prov- 
ender for  a  working  artist.  He  knew,  even  as  he  sat  there 
cross-legged,  an  apparently  self-supporting  and  care-free 
Bedouin,  that  this  ensuing  five  dollars  would  never  be  seen 
by  Mrs.  Patterson. 


"NOTHING  TO-DAY,  DEAR!"  135 

There  were  a  few  more  shots  of  the  cafe's  interior  during 
which  one  of  the  inmates  carefully  permitted  his  half-con- 
sumed cigarette  to  go  out.  After  that  a  few  more  shots  of 
the  lively  street  which,  it  was  now  learned,  was  a  street  in 
Cairo.  Earnest  efforts  were  made  by  the  throngs  in  these 
scenes  to  give  the  murderous  camel  plenty  of  head  room. 
Some  close-ups  were  taken  of  the  European  tourists  while 
they  bargained  with  a  native  merchant  for  hammered  brass- 
ware  and  rare  shawls. 

The  bad  sheik  was  caught  near  the  group  bending  an  evil 
glare  upon  the  beauteous  English  girl,  and  once  the  camera 
turned  while  she  faced  him  with  a  little  shiver  of  apprehen- 
sion. Later  the  sheik  was  caught  bargaining  for  a  camel 
train  with  the  innocent-looking  old  gentleman  in  the  sun-hat. 
Undoubtedly  the  sheik  was  about  to  lead  them  into  the  desert 
for  no  good  purpose.  A  dreadful  fate  seemed  in  store  for 
the  girl,  but  she  must  be  left  to  face  it  without  the  support 
of  Merton  Gill. 

The  lately  hired  extras  were  now  dismissed.  They  trooped 
back  to  the  dressing  room  to  doff  their  flowing  robes  and  re- 
move the  Bedouin  make-up.  Merton  Gill  went  from  the 
dressing  room  to  the  little  window  through  which  he  had 
received  his  robe  and  his  slip  was  returned  to  him  signed 
by  the  assistant  director.  It  had  now  become  a  paper  of 
value,  even  to  Mrs.  Patterson;  but  she  was  never  to  know 
this,  for  its  owner  went  down  the  street  to  another  window 
and  relinquished  it  for  a  five-dollar  bill. 

The  bill  was  adorned  with  a  portrait  of  Benjamin  Harrison 
smugly  radiating  prosperity  from  every  hair  in  his  beard. 
He  was  clearly  one  who  had  never  gone  hungry  nor  betrayed 
the  confidence  of  a  society  woman  counting  upon  her  room 
rent  strictly  in  advance.  The  portrait  of  this  successful 
man  was  borne  swiftly  to  the  cafeteria  where  its  present 
owner  lavishly  heaped  a  tray  with  excellent  food  and  hastened 
with  it  to  a  table.  He  ate  with  but  slight  regard  for  his 
surroundings.  Beulah  Baxter  herself  might  have  occupied 
a  neighbouring  table  without  coming  to  his  notice  at  once. 


136  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

He  was  very  hungry.  The  catsup-laden  soup  had  proved 
to  be  little  more  than  an  appetizer. 

In  his  first  ardour  he  forgot  his  plight.  It  was  not  until 
later  in  the  meal  that  the  accusing  face  of  Mrs.  Patterson 
came  between  him  and  the  last  of  his  stew  which  he  secured 
with  blotters  of  bread.  Even  then  he  ignored  the  woman. 
He  had  other  things  to  think  of.  He  had  to  think  of  where 
he  should  sleep  that  night.  But  for  once  he  had  eaten 
enough;  his  optimism  was  again  enthroned. 

Sleeping,  after  all,  was  not  like  eating.  There  were  more 
ways  to  manage  it.  The  law  of  sleep  would  in  time  enforce 
itself,  while  eating  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  You  might  sleep 
for  nothing,  but  someone  had  to  be  paid  if  you  ate.  He 
cheerfully  paid  eighty  cents  for  his  repast.  The  catsup  as 
an  appetizer  had  been  ruinous. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  he  left  the  cafeteria  and 
the  cheerful  activities  of  the  lot  were  drawing  to  a  close. 
Extra  people  from  the  various  stages  were  hurrying  to  the 
big  dressing  room,  whence  they  would  presently  stream, 
slips  in  hand,  toward  the  cashier's  window.  Belated  princi- 
pals came  in  from  their  work  to  resume  their  choice  street 
garments  and  be  driven  off  in  choice  motor  cars. 

Merton  Gill  in  deep  thought  traversed  the  street  between 
the  big  stages  and  the  dressing  rooms.  Still  in  deep  thought 
he  retraced  his  steps,  and  at  the  front  office  turned  off  to  the 
right  on  a  road  that  led  to  the  deserted  street  of  the  Western 
town.  His  head  bowed  in  thought  he  went  down  this  silent 
thoroughfare,  his  footsteps  echoing  along  the  way  lined  by 
the  closed  shops.  The  Happy  Days  Saloon  and  Joe — Buy  or 
Sell,  the  pool-room  and  the  restaurant,  alike  slept  for  want 
of  custom.  He  felt  again  the  eeriness  of  this  desertion,  and 
hurried  on  past  the  silent  places. 

Emerging  from  the  lower  end  of  this  street  he  came  upon 
a  log  cabin  where  activity  still  survived.  He  joined  the 
group  before  its  door.  Inside  two  cameras  wore  recording 
some  drama  of  the  rude  frontier.  Over  glowing  coals  in 
the  stone  fireplace  a  beautiful  young  girl  prepared  food  in 


"NOTHING  TO-DAY,  DEAR!"  137 

a  long-handled  frying  pan.  At  a  table  in  the  room's  centre 
two  bearded  miners  seemed  to  be  appraising  a  buckskin 
pouch  of  nuggets,  pouring  them  from  hand  to  hand.  A 
candle  stuck  in  a  bottle  flickered  beside  them.  They  were 
honest,  kindly  faced  miners,  roughly  dressed  and  heavily 
bearded,  but  it  could  be  seen  that  they  had  hearts  of  gold. 
The  beautiful  young  girl,  who  wore  a  simple  dress  of  blue 
calico,  and  whose  hair  hung  about  her  fair  face  in  curls  of  a 
radiant  buff,  now  served  them  food  and  poured  steaming 
coffee  from  a  large  pot. 

The  miners  seemed  loth  to  eat,  being  excited  by  the  gold 
nuggets.  They  must  have  struck  it  rich  that  day,  Merton 
Gill  divined,  and  now  with  wealth  untold  they  would  be 
planning  to  send  the  girl  East  to  school.  They  both  patted 
her  affectionately,  keeping  from  her  the  great  surprise  they 
had  in  store. 

The  girl  was  arch  with  them,  and  prettily  kissed  each  upon 
his  bald  head.  Merton  at  once  saw  that  she  would  be  the 
daughter  of  neither;  she  would  be  their  ward.  And  perhaps 
they  weren't  planning  to  send  her  to  school.  Perhaps  they 
were  going  to  send  her  to  fashionable  relatives  in  the  East, 
where  she  would  unwittingly  become  the  rival  of  her  beauti- 
ful but  cold-hearted  cousin  for  the  hand  of  a  rich  young 
stock-broker,  and  be  ill-treated  and  long  for  the  old  miners 
who  would  get  word  of  it  and  buy  some  fine  clothes  from 
Joe — Buy  or  Sell,  and  go  East  to  the  consternation  of  the 
rich  relatives  and  see  that  their  little  mountain  flower  was 
treated  right. 

As  he  identified  this  photo-play  he  studied  the  interior 
of  the  cabin,  the  rough  table  at  which  the  three  now  ate,  the 
makeshift  chairs,  the  rifle  over  the  fireplace,  the  picks  and 
shovels,  the  shelf  along  the  wall  with  its  crude  dishes,  the 
calico  curtain  screening  off  what  would  be  the  dressing  room 
of  the  little  mountain  flower.  It  was  a  home-like  room,  for 
all  its  roughness.  Along  one  wall  were  two  bunks,  one  above 
the  other,  well  supplied  with  blankets. 

The  director,  after  a  final  shot  of  one  of  the  miners  being 


138  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

scalded  by  his  coffee  which  he  drank  from  a  saucer,  had 
sfid,  "All  right,  boys t  We'll  have  the  fight  first  thing  in  the 
morning/' 

Merton  Gill  passed  on.  He  didn't  quite  know  what  the 
fight  would  be  about.  Surely  the  two  miners  wouldn't 
fight.  Perhaps  another  miner  of  loose  character  would  come 
along  and  try  to  jump  their  claim,  or  attempt  some  dirty 
work  with  the  little  girl.  Something  like  that.  He  carried 
with  him  the  picture  of  the  homey  little  interior,  the  fire- 
place with  its  cooking  utensils,  the  two  bunks  with  their 
ample  stock  of  blankets — the  crude  door  closed  with  a 
wooden  bar  and  a  leather  latch-string,  which  hung  trustfully 
outside. 

In  other  circumstances — chiefly  those  in  which  Merton 
Gill  had  now  been  the  prominent  figure  in  the  film  world  he 
meant  one  day  to  become — he  would  on  this  night  have  un- 
doubtedly won  public  attention  for  his  mysterious  disap- 
pearance. The  modest  room  in  the  Patterson  home,  to 
which  for  three  months  he  had  unfailingly  come  after  the 
first  picture  show,  on  this  night  went  untenanted.  The 
guardian  at  the  Holden  gate  would  have  testified  that  he  had 
not  passed  out  that  way,  and  the  way  through  the  offices 
had  been  closed  at  five,  subsequent  to  which  hour  several 
witnesses  could  have  sworn  to  seeing  him  still  on  the  lot. 
In  the  ensuing  search  even  the  tank  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
lot  might  have  been  dragged — without  result. 

Being  little  known  to  the  public,  however,  and  in  the 
Patterson  home  it  being  supposed  that  you  could  never  tell 
about  motion-picture  actors,  his  disappearance  for  the  night 
caused  absolutely  no  slightest  ripple.  Public  attention  as 
regarded  the  young  man  remained  at  a  mirror-like  calm, 
unflawed  by  even  the  mildest  curiosity.  He  had  been  seen, 
perhaps,  though  certainly  not  noted  with  any  interest,  to 
be  one  of  the  group  watching  a  night  scene  in  front  of  one 
of  the  Fifth  Avenue  mansions. 

Lights  shone  from  the  draped  windows  of  this  mansion 
and  from  its  portals  issued  none  other  than  Muriel  Mercer, 


"NOTHING  TO-DAY,  DEAR!"  139 

who,  as  Vera  Vanderpool,  freed  at  last  from  the  blight  of 
Broadway,  was  leaving  her  palatial  home  to  cast  her  lot 
finally  with  the  ardent  young  tenement  worker  with  the  high 
forehead.  She  descended  the  brown-stone  steps,  paused 
once  to  look  back  upon  the  old  home  where  she  had  been 
taught  to  love  pleasure  above  the  worth-while  things  of  life, 
then  came  on  to  the  waiting  limousine,  being  greeted  here 
by  the  young  man  with  the  earnest  forehead  who  had  won 
her  to  the  better  way. 

The  missing  youth  might  later  have  been  observed,  but 
probably  was  not,  walking  briskly  in  the  chill  night  toward 
the  gate  that  led  to  the  outer  world.  But  he  wheeled 
abruptly  before  reaching  this  gate,  and  walked  again  briskly, 
this  time  debouching  from  the  main  thoroughfare  into  the 
black  silence  of  the  Western  village.  Here  his  pace  slack- 
ened, and  halfway  down  the  street  he  paused  irresolutely. 
He  was  under  the  wooden  porch  of  the  Fashion  Restaurant 
— Give  our  Tamales  a  Trial.  He  lingered  here  but  a  mo- 
ment, however,  then  lurked  on  down  the  still  thoroughfare, 
keeping  well  within  the  shadow  of  the  low  buildings.  Just 
beyond  the  street  was  the  log  cabin  of  the  big-hearted 
miners.  A  moment  later  he  could  not  have  been  observed 
even  by  the  keenest  eye. 

Nothing  marked  his  disappearance,  at  least  nothing  that 
would  have  been  noted  by  the  casual  minded.  He  had 
simply  gone.  He  was  now  no  more  than  the  long-vanished 
cowboys  and  sheriffs  and  gamblers  and  petty  tradesmen  who 
had  once  peopled  this  street  of  silence  and  desolation. 

A  night  watchman  came  walking  presently,  flashing  an 
electric  torch  from  side  to  side.  He  noticed  nothing.  He 
was,  indeed,  a  rather  imaginative  man,  and  he  hoped  he  would 
not  notice  anything.  He  did  not  like  coming  down  this 
ghostly  street,  which  his  weak  mind  would  persist  in  peopling 
with  phantom  crowds  from  long-played  picture  dramas. 
It  gave  him  the  creeps,  as  he  had  more  than  once  confessed. 
He  hurried  on,  flashing  his  torch  along  the  blind  fronts  of 
the  shops  in  a  perfunctory  manner.  He  was  especially 


140  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

nervous  when  he  came  to  corners.  And  he  was  glad  when 
he  issued  from  the  little  street  into  the  wider  one  that  was 
well  lighted. 

How  could  he  have  been  expected  to  notice  a  very  trifling 
incongruous  detail  as  he  passed  the  log  cabin?  Indeed 
many  a  keener-eyed  and  entirely  valorous  night  watchman 
might  have  neglected  to  observe  that  the  leathern  latch-string 
of  the  cabin's  closed  door  was  no  longer  hanging  outside. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CLIFFORD   ARMYTAGE,   THE  OUTLAW 

DAWN  brought  the  wide  stretches  of  the  Holden  lot 
into  gray  relief.  It  lightened  the  big  yellow  stages 
and  crept  down  the  narrow  street  of  the  Western 
town  where  only  the  ghosts  of  dead  plays  stalked.  It  bur- 
nished the  rich  fronts  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  mansions  and 
in  the  next  block  illumined  the  rough  sides  of  a  miner's 
cabin. 

With  more  difficulty  it  seeped  through  the  blurred  glass 
of  the  one  window  in  this  structure  and  lightened  the  shadows 
of  its  interior  to  a  pale  gray.  The  long-handled  frying-pan 
rested  on  the  hearth  where  the  little  girl  had  left  it.  The 
dishes  of  the  overnight  meal  were  still  on  the  table;  the  vacant 
chairs  sprawled  about  it;  and  the  rifle  was  in  its  place  above 
the  rude  mantel;  the  picks  and  shovels  awaited  the  toil  of  a 
new  day.  All  seemed  as  it  had  been  when  the  director  had 
closed  the  door  upon  it  the  previous  night. 

But  then  the  blankets  in  the  lower  bunk  were  seen  to  heave 
and  to  be  thrust  back  from  the  pale  face  of  Merton  Gill. 
An  elbow  came  into  play,  and  the  head  was  raised.  A  gaze 
still  vague  with  sleep  travelled  about  the  room  in  dull  alarm. 
He  was  waking  up  in  his  little  room  at  the  Patterson  house 
and  he  couldn't  make  it  look  right.  He  rubbed  his  eyes 
vigorously  and  pushed  himself  farther  up.  His  mind  re- 
sumed its  broken  threads.  He  was  where  he  had  meant  to 
be  from  the  moment  he  had  spied  the  blankets  in  those 
bunks. 

In  quicker  alarm,  now,  he  reached  for  his  watch.  Perhaps 
he  had  slept  too  late  and  would  be  discovered — arrested, 

141 


142  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

jailed!  He  found  his  watch  on  the  floor  beside  the  bunk. 
Seven  o'clock.  He  was  safe.  He  could  dress  at  leisure, 
and  presently  be  an  early-arriving  actor  on  the  Holden  lot. 
He  wondered  how  soon  he  could  get  food  at  the  cafeteria. 
Sleeping  in  this  mountain  cabin  had  cursed  him  with  a  rav- 
enous appetite,  as  if  he  had  indeed  been  far  off  in  the  keen 
air  of  the  North  Woods. 

He  crept  from  the  warm  blankets,  and  from  under  the 
straw  mattress — in  which  one  of  the  miners  had  hidden  the 
pouch  of  nuggets — he  took  his  newly  pressed  trousers. 
Upon  a  low  bench  across  the  room  was  a  battered  tin  wash- 
basin, a  bucket  of  water  brought  by  the  little  girl  from  the 
spring,  and  a  bar  of  yellow  soap.  He  made  a  quick  toilet, 
and  at  seven-thirty,  a  good  hour  before  the  lot  would  wake 
up,  he  was  dressed  and  at  the  door. 

It  might  be  chancy,  opening  that  door;  so  he  peered 
through  a  narrow  crack  at  first,  listening  intently.  He  could 
hear  nothing  and  no  one  was  in  sight.  He  pushed  the  latch- 
string  through  its  hole,  then  opened  the  door  enough  to  emit 
his  slender  shape. 

A  moment  later,  ten  feet  from  the  closed  door,  he  stood 
at  ease,  scanning  the  log  cabin  as  one  who,  passing  by,  had 
been  attracted  by  its  quaint  architecture.  Then  glancing 
in  both  directions  to  be  again  sure  that  he  was  unobserved, 
he  walked  away  from  his  new  home. 

He  did  not  slink  furtively.  He  took  the  middle  of  the 
street  and  there  was  a  bit  of  swagger  to  his  gait.  He  felt 
rather  set  up  about  this  adventure.  He  reached  what  might 
have  been  called  the  lot's  civic  centre  and  cast  a  patronizing 
eye  along  the  ends  of  the  big  stages  and  the  long,  low  dressing- 
room  building  across  from  them.  Before  the  open  door  of  the 
warehouse  he  paused  to  watch  a  truck  being  loaded  with 
handsome  furniture — a  drawing  room  was  evidently  to  be 
set  on  one  of  the  stages.  Rare  rugs  and  beautiful  chairs 
and  tables  were  carefully  brought  out.  He  had  rather  a 
superintending  air  as  he  watched  this  process.  He  might 
have  been  taken  for  the  owner  of  these  costly  things,  watch- 


CLIFFORD  ARMYTAGE,  THE  OUTLAW      143 

ing  to  see  that  no  harm  befell  them.  He  strolled  on  when 
the  truck  had  received  its  load.  Such  people  as  he  had  met 
were  only  artisans,  carpenters,  electricians,  property-men. 
He  faced  them  all  confidently,  with  glances  of  slightly  amused 
tolerance.  They  were  good  men  in  their  way  but  they  were 
not  actors — not  artists. 

In  the  neatly  landscaped  little  green  place  back  of  the 
office  building  a  climbing  rose  grew  on  a  trellis.  He  plucked 
a  pink  bud,  fixed  it  in  his  lapel,  and  strolled  down  the  street 
past  the  dressing  rooms.  Across  from  these  the  doors  of 
the  big  stages  were  slid  back,  and  inside  he  could  see  that 
sets  were  being  assembled.  The  truckload  of  furniture  came 
to  one  of  these  doors  and  he  again  watched  it  as  the  stuff 
was  carried  inside. 

For  all  these  workmen  knew,  he  might  presently  be  earn- 
ing a  princely  salary  as  he  acted  amid  these  beautiful  objects, 
perhaps  attending  a  reception  in  a  Fifth  Avenue  mansion 
where  the  father  of  a  beautiful  New  York  society  girl  would 
tell  him  that  he  must  first  make  good  before  he  could  aspire 
to  her  hand.  And  he  would  make  good — out  there  in  the 
great  open  spaces,  where  the  girl  would  come  to  him  after 
many  adventures  and  where  they  would  settle  to  an  untrou- 
bled future  in  the  West  they  both  loved. 

He  had  slept;  he  knew  where — with  luck — he  could  sleep 
again;  and  he  had  money  in  his  pocket  for  several  more 
ample  meals.  At  this  moment  he  felt  equal  to  anything. 

No  more  than  pleasantly  aware  of  his  hunger,  sharpened 
by  the  walk  in  this  keen  morning  air,  he  made  a  nonchalant 
progress  toward  the  cafeteria.  Motor  cars  were  now  stream- 
ing through  the  gate,  disgorging  other  actors — trim  young 
men  and  beautiful  young  women  who  must  hurry  to  the 
dressing  rooms  while  he  could  sit  at  ease  in  a  first-class 
cafeteria  and  eat  heavily  of  sustaining  foods.  Inside  he  chose 
from  the  restricted  menu  offered  by  the  place  at  this  early 
hour  and  ate  in  a  leisurely,  almost  condescending  mariner. 
Half-a-dozen  other  early  comers  wolfed  their  food  as  if  they 
feared  to  be  late  for  work,  but  he  suffered  no  such  anxiety. 


144  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

He  consumed  the  last  morsel  that  his  tray  held,  drained  his 
cup  of  coffee,  and  jingled  the  abundant  silver  coin  in  his 
pocket. 

True,  underneath  it,  as  he  plumed  himself  upon  his  ad- 
venture, was  a  certain  pestering  consciousness  that  all  was 
not  so  well  with  him  as  observers  might  guess.  But  he 
resolutely  put  this  away  each  time  it  threatened  to  over- 
whelm him.  He  would  cross  no  bridge  until  he  came  to  it. 
He  even  combated  this  undercurrent  of  sanity  by  wording 
part  of  an  interview  with  himself  some  day  to  appear  in 
Photo  Land: 

"Clifford  Armytage  smiled  that  rare  smile  which  his 
admirers  have  found  so  winning  on  the  silver  <;  Teen — a 
smile  reminiscent,  tender,  eloquent  of  adversities  happily 
surmounted.  'Yes/  he  said  frankly  in  the  mellow  tones  that 
are  his,  T  guess  there  were  times  when  I  almost  gave  up  the 
struggle.  I  recall  one  spell,  not  so  many  years  ago,  when  I 
camped  informally  on  the  Holden  lot,  sleeping  where  I  could 
find  a  bed  and  stinting  myself  in  food  to  eke  out  my  little 
savings.  Yet  I  look  back  upon  that  time' — he  mischie- 
vously pulled  the  ears  of  the  magnificent  Great  Dane  that 
lolled  at  his  feet — 'as  one  of  the  happiest  in  my  career,  be- 
cause I  always  knew  that  my  day  would  come.  I  had  done 
only  a  few  little  bits,  but  they  had  stood  out,  and  the  di- 
rectors had  noticed  me.  Not  once  did  I  permit  myself  to 
become  discouraged,  and  so  I  say  to  your  readers  who  may 
feel  that  they  have  in  them  the  stuff  for  truly  creative  screen 
art '" 

He  said  it,  dreaming  above  the  barren  tray,  said  it  as 
Harold  Parmalee  had  said  it  in  a  late  interview  extorted 
from  him  by  Augusta  Blivens  for  the  refreshment  of  his  host 
of  admirers  who  read  Photo  Land.  He  was  still  saying  it  as 
he  paid  his  check  at  the  counter,  breaking  off  only  to  reflect 
that  fifty-five  cents  was  a  good  deal  to  be  paying  for  food  so 
early  in  the  day.  For  of  course  he  must  eat  again  before 
seeking  shelter  of  the  humble  miner's  cabin. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  the  blankets  might  be  gone  by 


CLIFFORD  ARMYTAGE,  THE  OUTLAW      145 

nightfall.  He  hoped  they  would  have  trouble  with  the  fight 
scene.  He  hoped  there  would  be  those  annoying  delays  that 
so  notoriously  added  to  the  cost  of  producing  the  screen 
drama — long  waits,  when  no  one  seemed  to  know  what  was 
being  waited  for,  and  bored  actors  lounged  about  in  apathy. 
He  hoped  the  fight  would  be  a  long  fight.  You  needed 
blankets  even  in  sunny  California. 

He  went  out  to  pass  an  enlivening  day,  fairly  free  of  mis- 
giving. He  found  an  abundance  of  entertainment.  On 
one  stage  he  overlooked  for  half  an  hour  a  fragment  of  the 
desert  drama  which  he  had  assisted  the  previous  day.  A 
covered  incline  led  duskily  down  to  the  deserted  tomb  in 
which  the  young  man  and  the  beautiful  English  girl  were  to 
take  shelter  for  the  night.  They  would  have  eluded  the 
bad  sheik  for  a  little  while,  and  in  the  tomb  the  young  man 
would  show  himself  to  be  a  gentleman  by  laying  not  so  much 
as  a  finger  upon  the  defenceless  girl. 

But  this  soon  palled  upon  the  watching  connoisseur.  The 
actual  shots  were  few  and  separated  by  barren  intervals  of 
waiting  for  that  mysterious  something  which  photoplays 
in  production  seemed  to  need.  Being  no  longer  identified 
with  this  drama  he  had  lost  much  of  his  concern  over  the 
fate  in  store  for  the  girl,  though  he  knew  she  would  emerge 
from  the  ordeal  as  pure  as  she  was  beautiful — a  bit  foolish 
at  moments,  perhaps,  but  good. 

He  found  that  he  was  especially  interested  in  bedroom 
scenes.  On  Stage  Four  a  sumptuous  bedroom,  vacant  for  the 
moment,  enchained  him  for  a  long  period  of  contemplation. 
The  bed  was  of  some  rare  wood  ornately  carved,  with  a  silken 
canopy,  spread  with  finest  linen  and  quilts  of  down,  its 
pillows  opulent  in  their  embroidered  cases.  The  hide  of  a 
polar  bear,  its  head  mounted  with  open  jaws,  spread  over  the 
rich  rug  beside  the  bed.  He  wondered  about  this  interest- 
ingly. Probably  the  stage  would  be  locked  at  night.  Still, 
at  a  suitable  hour,  he  could  descreetly  find  out. 

On  another  stage  a  bedroom  likewise  intrigued  him, 
though  this  was  a  squalid  room  in  a  tenement  and  the  bed 


146  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

was  a  cheap  thing  sparsely  covered  and  in  sad  disorder. 
People  were  working  on  this  set,  and  he  presently  identified 
the  play,  for  Muriel  Mercer  in  a  neat  black  dress  entered  to 
bring  comfort  to  the  tenement  dwellers.  But  this  play,  too, 
had  ceased  to  interest  him.  He  knew  that  Vera  Vanderpool 
had  escaped  the  blight  of  Broadway  to  choose  the  worth- 
while, the  true,  the  vital  things  of  life,  and  that  was  about  all 
he  now  cared  to  know  of  the  actual  play.  This  tenement 
bed  had  become  for  him  its  outstanding  dramatic  value. 
He  saw  himself  in  it  for  a  good  night's  rest,  waking  refreshed 
in  plenty  of  time  to  be  dressed  and  out  before  the  tenement 
people  would  need  it.  He  must  surely  learn  if  the  big  sliding 
doors  to  these  stages  were  locked  overnight. 

He  loitered  about  the  stages  until  late  afternoon,  with 
especial  attention  to  sleeping  apartments.  In  one  gripping 
drama  he  felt  cheated.  The  set  showed  the  elaborately 
fitted  establishment  of  a  fashionable  modiste.  Mannequins 
in  wondrous  gowns  came  through  parted  curtains  to  parade 
before  the  shop's  clientele,  mostly  composed  of  society  but- 
terflies. One  man  hovered  attentive  about  the  most  beauti- 
ful of  these,  and  whispered  entertainingly  as  she  scanned 
the  gowns  submitted  to  her  choice.  He  was  a  dissolute-look- 
ing man,  although  faultlessly  arrayed.  His  hair  was  thin, 
his  eyes  were  cruel,  and  his  face  bespoke  self-indulgence. 

The  expert  Merton  Gill  at  once  detected  that  the  beautiful 
young  woman  he  whispered  to  would  be  one  of  those  light- 
headed wives  who  care  more  for  fashionable  dress  than  for 
the  good  name  of  their  husbands.  He  foresaw  that  the  crea- 
ture would  be  trapped  into  the  power  of  this  villain  by  her 
love  of  finery,  though  he  was  sure  that  the  end  would  find 
her  still  a  good  woman.  The  mannequins  finished  their 
parade  and  the  throng  of  patrons  broke  up.  The  cameras 
were  pushed  to  an  adjoining  room  where  the  French  propri- 
etor of  the  place  figured  at  a  desk.  The  dissolute  pleasure- 
seeker  came  back  to  question  him.  His  errant  fancy  had 
been  caught  by  one  of  the  mannequins — the  most  beautiful 
of  them,  a  blonde  with  a  flowerlike  face  and  a  figure  whose 


CLIFFORD  ARMYTAGE,  THE  OUTLAW      147 

perfection  had  been  boldly  attested  by  the  gowns  she  had 
worn.  The  unprincipled  proprietor  at  once  demanded  from 
a  severe-faced  forewoman  that  this  girl  be  sent  for,  after  which 
he  discreetly  withdrew.  The  waiting  scoundrel  sat  and  com- 
placently pinched  the  ends  of  his  small  dark  mustache.  It 
could  be  seen  that  he  was  one  of  those  who  believe  that 
money  will  buy  anything. 

The  fair  girl  entered  and  was  leeringly  entreated  to  go  out 
to  dinner  with  him.  It  appeared  that  she  never  went  out  to 
dinner  with  any  one,  but  spent  her  evenings  with  her  mother 
who  was  very,  very  ill.  Her  unworthy  admirer  persisted. 
Then  the  telephone  on  the  manager's  desk  called  her.  Her 
mother  was  getting  worse.  The  beautiful  face  was  now 
suffused  with  agony,  but  this  did  not  deter  the  man  from 
his  loathsome  advances.  There  was  another  telephone  call. 
She  must  come  at  once  if  she  were  to  see  her  mother  alive. 
The  man  seized  her.  They  struggled.  All  seemed  lost, 
even  the  choice  gown  she  still  wore;  but  she  broke  away 
to  \>e  told  over  the  telephone  that  her  mother  had  died. 
Evea  this  sad  news  made  no  impression  upon  the  wretch. 
He  seemed  to  be  a  man  of  one  idea.  Again  he  seized  her, 
and  the  maddened  girl  stabbed  him  with  a  pair  of  long  gleam- 
ing shears  that  had  lain  on  the  manager's  desk.  He  fell 
lifeless  at  her  feet,  while  the  girl  stared  in  horror  at  the 
weapon  she  still  grasped. 

Merton  Gill  would  not  have  lingered  for  this.  There  were 
tedious  waits,  and  scenes  must  be  rehearsed  again  and  again. 
Even  the  agony  of  the  girl  as  she  learned  of  her  mother's 
passing  must  be  done  over  and  over  at  the  insistence  of  a 
director  who  seemed  to  know  what  a  young  girl  should  feel  at 
these  moments.  But  Merton  had  watched  from  his  place 
back  of  the  lights  with  fresh  interest  from  the  moment  it  was 
known  that  the  girl's  poor  old  mother  was  an  invalid,  for  he 
had  at  first  believed  that  the  mother's  bedroom  would  be 
near  by.  He  left  promptly  when  it  became  apparent  that 
the  mother's  bedroom  would  not  be  seen  in  this  drama. 
They  would  probably  show  the  doctor  at  the  other  telephone 


148  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

urging  the  girl  to  hurry  home,  and  show  him  again  announc- 
ing that  all  was  over,  but  the  expense  of  mother  and  her 
deathbed  had  been  saved.  He  cared  little  for  the  ending  of 
this  play.  Already  he  was  becoming  a  little  callous  to  the 
plight  of  beautiful  young  girls  threatened  with  the  loss  of  that 
which  they  held  most  dear. 

Purposely  all  day  he  had  avoided  the  neighbourhood  of 
his  humble  miner's  home.  He  thought  it  as  well  that  he 
should  not  be  seen  much  around  there.  He  ate  again  at  four 
o'clock,  heartily  and  rather  expensively,  and  loafed  about  the 
stages  until  six.  Then  he  strolled  leisurely  down  the  village 
street  and  out  the  lower  end  to  where  he  could  view  the  cabin. 
Work  for  the  day  was  plainly  over.  The  director  and  his 
assistant  lingered  before  the  open  door  in  consultation.  A 
property  man  and  an  electrician  were  engaged  inside,  but  a 
glance  as  he  passed  showed  that  the  blankets  were  still  in  the 
bunks.  He  did  not  wait  to  see  more,  but  passed  on  with  all 
evidences  of  disinterest  in  this  lowly  abode. 

He  ascertained  that  night  that  the  fight  must  have  been 
had.  The  table  was  overturned,  one  of  the  chairs  wrecked, 
and  there  were  other  signs  of  disorder.  Probably  it  had  been 
an  excellent  fight;  probably  these  primitive  men  of  the  woods 
had  battled  desperately.  But  he  gave  little  consideration  to 
the  combat,  and  again  slept  warmly  under  the  blankets. 
Perhaps  they  would  fight  again  to-morrow,  or  perhaps  there 
would  be  less  violent  bits  of  the  drama  that  would  secure 
him  another  night  of  calm  repose. 

The  following  morning  found  him  slightly  disturbed  by  two 
unforeseen  needs  arising  from  his  novel  situation.  He  looked 
carefully  at  his  collar,  wondering  how  many  days  he  would 
be  able  to  keep  it  looking  like  a  fresh  collar,  and  he  regretted 
that  he  had  not  brought  his  safety-razor  to  this  new  home. 
Still  the  collar  was  in  excellent  shape  as  yet,  and  a  scrutiny  of 
his  face  in  the  cracked  mirror  hanging  on  the  log  wall  de- 
termined that  he  could  go  at  least  another  day  without  shav- 
ing. His  beard  was  of  a  light  growth,  gentle  in  texture,  and 
he  was  yet  far  from  the  plight  of  Mr.  Montague.  Eventually, 


CLIFFORD  ARMYTAGE,  THE  OUTLAW      149 

to  be  sure,  he  would  have  to  go  to  the  barber  shop  on  the  lot 
and  pay  money  to  be  shaved,  which  seemed  a  pity,  because 
an  actor  could  live  indefinitely  unshaven  but  could  live  with- 
out food  for  the  merest  fragment  of  time. 

He  resolved  to  be  on  the  lookout  that  day  for  a  barber-shop 
set.  He  believed  they  were  not  common  in  the  photodrama, 
still  one  might  be  found. 

He  limited  himself  to  the  lightest  of  breakfasts.  He  had 
timidly  refrained  from  counting  his  silver  but  he  knew  he 
must  be  frugal.  He  rejoiced  at  this  economy  until  late  after- 
noon when,  because  of  it,  he  simply  had  to  eat  a  heavier 
dinner  than  he  had  expected  to  need.  There  was  something 
so  implacable  about  this  demand  for  food.  If  you  skimped 
in  the  morning  you  must  make  amends  at  the  next  meal.  He 
passed  the  time  as  on  the  previous  day,  a  somewhat  blase  actor 
resting  between  pictures,  and  condescending  to  beguile  the 
tedium  by  overlooking  the  efforts  of  his  professional  brethren. 
He  could  find  no  set  that  included  a  barber  shop,  although 
they  were  beds  on  every  hand.  He  hoped  for  another  night 
in  the  cabin,  but  if  that  were  not  to  be,  there  was  a  bed  easy 
of  access  on  Stage  Three.  When  he  had  observed  it,  a  ghastly 
old  father  was  coughing  out  his  life  under  its  blankets,  nursed 
only  by  his  daughter,  a  beautiful  young  creature  who  sewed 
by  his  bedside,  and  who  would  doubtless  be  thrown  upon  the 
world  in  the  very  next  reel,  though — Merton  was  glad  to 
note — probably  not  until  the  next  day. 

Yet  there  was  no  need  for  this  couch  of  the  tubercular 
father,  for  action  in  the  little  cabin  was  still  on.  After 
making  the  unhappy  discovery  in  the  cafeteria  that  his 
appetite  could  not  be  hoodwinked  by  the  clumsy  subterfuge 
of  calling  coffee  and  rolls  a  breakfast  some  six  hours  pre- 
viously, he  went  boldly  down  to  stand  before  his  home. 
Both  miners  were  at  work  inside.  The  room  had  been 
placed  in  order  again,  though  the  little  mountain  flower  was 
gone.  A  letter,  he  gathered,  had  been  received  from  her, 
and  one  of  the  miners  was  about  to  leave  on  a  long  journey. 

Merton  could  not  be  sure,  but  he  supposed  that  the  letter 


150  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

from  the  little  girl  told  that  she  was  unhappy  in  her  new 
surroundings,  perhaps  being  ill-treated  by  the  supercilious 
Eastern  relatives.  The  miner  who  was  to  remain  helped  the 
other  to  pack  his  belongings  in  a  quaint  old  carpet  sack,  and 
together  they  undid  a  bundle  which  proved  to  contain  a 
splendid  new  suit.  Not  only  this,  but  now  came  a  scene  of 
eloquent  appeal  to  the  watcher  outside  the  door.  The 
miner  who  was  to  remain  expressed  stern  disapproval  of 
the  departing  miner's  beard.  It  would  never  do,  he  was 
seen  to  intimate,  and  when  the  other  miner  portrayed  help- 
lessness a  new  package  was  unwrapped  and  a  safety  razor 
revealed  to  his  shocked  gaze. 

At  this  sight  Merton  Gill  felt  himself  growing  too  emotional 
for  a  mere  careless  bystander,  and  withdrew  to  a  distance 
where  he  could  regain  better  control  of  himself.  When  he 
left  the  miner  to  be  shorn  was  betraying  comic  dismay  while 
the  other  pantomimed  the  correct  use  of  the  implement  his 
thoughfulness  had  provided.  When  he  returned  after  half- 
an-hour's  rather  nervous  walk  up  another  street,  the  depart- 
ing miner  was  clean  shaven  and  one  might  note  the  new 
razor  glittering  on  the  low  bench  beside  the  battered  tin 
basin. 

They  worked  late  hi  his  home  that  night;  trifling  scenes 
were  taken  and  retaken.  The  departing  miner  had  to  dress 
in  his  splendid  but  ill-fitting  new  garments  and  to  bid  an 
affectionate  farewell  to  his  partner,  then  had  to  dress  in  his 
old  clothes  again  for  some  bit  that  had  been  forgotten,  only  to 
don  the  new  suit  for  close-ups.  At  another  time  Merton  Gill 
might  have  resented  this  tediously  drawn-out  affair  which 
was  keeping  him  from  his  rest,  for  he  had  come  to  look  upon 
this  structure  as  one  having  rights  in  it  after  a  certain  hour, 
but  a  sight  of  the  razor  which  had  not  been  touched  allayed 
any  possible  feeling  of  irritation. 

It  was  nine-thirty  before  the  big  lights  jarred  finally  off  and 
the  director  said,  "  That's  all,  boys."  Then  he  turned  to  call, 
"Jimmie!  Hey,  Jimmie !  Where's  that  prop-rustler  gone  to 
now?" 


CLIFFORD  ARMYTAGE,  THE  OUTLAW      151 

"Here,  Mr.  Burke,  yes,  sir." 

"We've  finished  the  shack  stuff.  Let's  see "  He 

looked  at  the  watch  on  his  wrist — "That'll  be  all  for  to-night. 
Strike  this  first  thing  to-morrow  morning." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Jimmie.  The  door  was  closed  and  the 
men  walked  away.  Merton  trailed  them  a  bit,  not  remain- 
ing too  pointedly  near  the  cabin.  He  circled  around  through 
Fifth  Avenue  to  regain  the  place. 

Softly  he  let  himself  in  and  groped  through  the  dark  until 
his  hand  closed  upon  the  abandoned  razor.  Satisfying  him- 
self that  fresh  blades  had  accompanied  it,  he  made  ready  for 
bed.  He  knew  it  was  to  be  his  last  night  in  this  shelter.  The 
director  had  told  Jimmie  to  strike  it  first  thing  in  the  morning. 
The  cabin  would  still  be  there,  but  it  would  contain  no  homely 
furniture,  no  chairs,  no  table,  no  wash-basin,  no  safety-razor 
and,  most  vital  of  lacks — it  would  be  devoid  of  blankets. 

Yet  this  knowledge  did  not  dismay  him.  He  slept  peace- 
fully after  praying  that  something  good  would  happen  to  him. 
He  put  it  that  way  very  simply.  He  had  placed  hiinself,  it 
seemed,  where  things  could  only  happen  to  him.  He  was, 
he  felt,  beyond  bringing  them  about. 


CHAPTER  IX 

MORE  WAYS  THAN  ONE 

EARLY  he  was  up  to  bathe  and  shave.     He  shaved 
close  to  make  it  last  longer,  until  his  tender  face 
reddened  under  the  scraping.     Probably  he  would 
not  find  another  cabin  in  which  a  miner  would  part  with  his 
beard  for  an  Eastern  trip.     Probably  he  would  have  to  go  to 
the  barber  the  next  time.     He  also  succeeded,  with  soap  and 
water,  in  removing  a  stain  from  his  collar.     It  was  still  a 
decent  collar;  not  immaculate,  perhaps,  but  entirely  possible. 

This  day  he  took  eggs  with  his  breakfast,  intending  to 
wheedle  his  appetite  with  a  lighter  second  meal  than  it  had 
demanded  the  day  before.  He  must  see  if  this  would  not 
average  better  on  the  day's  overhead. 

After  breakfast  he  was  irresistibly  drawn  to  view  the  mov- 
ing picture  of  his  old  home  being  dismantled.  He  knew  now 
that  he  might  stand  brazenly  there  without  possible  criticism. 
He  found  Jimmy  and  a  companion  property-boy  already 
busy.  Much  of  the  furniture  was  outside  to  be  carted  away. 
Jimmy,  as  Merton  lolled  idly  in  the  doorway,  emptied  the 
blackened  coffee  pot  into  the  ashes  of  the  fireplace  and  then 
proceeded  to  spoon  into  the  same  refuse  heap  half  a  kettle  of 
beans  upon  which  the  honest  miners  had  once  feasted.  The 
watcher  deplored  that  he  had  not  done  more  than  taste  the 
beans  when  he  had  taken  his  final  survey  of  the  place  this 
morning.  They  had  been  good  beans,  but  to  do  more  than 
taste  them  would  have  been  stealing.  Now  he  saw  them 
thrown  away  and  regretted  that  he  could  not  have  known 
what  their  fate  was  to  be.  There  had  been  enough  of  them 
to  save  him  a  day's  expenses. 

152 


MORE  WAYS  THAN  ONE  153 

He  stood  aside  as  the  two  boys  brought  out  the  cooking 
utensils,  the  rifle,  the  miners'  tools,  to  stow  them  in  a  waiting 
handcart.  When  they  had  loaded  this  vehicle  they  trundled 
it  on  up  the  narrow  street  of  the  Western  town.  Yet  they 
went  only  a  little  way,  halting  before  one  of  the  street's 
largest  buildings.  A  sign  above  its  wooden  porch  flaunted 
the  name  Crystal  Palace  Hotel.  They  unlocked  its  front 
door  and  took  the  things  from  the  cart  inside. 

From  the  street  the  watcher  could  see  them  stowing  these 
away.  The  room  appeared  to  contain  a  miscellaneous 
collection  of  articles  needed  in  the  ruder  sort  of  photodrama. 
Emptying  their  cart,  they  returned  with  it  to  the  cabin  for 
another  load.  Merton  Gill  stepped  to  the  doorway  and 
peered  in  from  apparently  idle  curiosity.  He  could  see  a  row 
of  saddles  on  wooden  supports;  there  were  kitchen  stoves, 
lamps,  painted  chairs,  and  heavy  earthenware  dishes  on 
shelves.  His  eyes  wandered  over  these  articles  until  they 
came  to  rest  upon  a  pile  of  blankets  at  one  side  of  the  room. 
They  were  neatly  folded,  and  they  were  many. 

Down  before  the  cabin  he  could  see  the  handcart  being 
reloaded,  by  Jimmie  and  his  helper.  Otherwise  the  street 
was  empty.  The  young  man  at  the  doorway  stepped  lightly 
in  and  regarded  the  windows  on  either  side  of  the  door.  He 
sauntered  to  the  street  and  appeared  to  be  wondering  what  he 
would  examine  next  in  this  c  rious  world.  He  passed 
Jimmie  and  the  other  boy  returning  with  the  last  load  from 
the  cabin.  He  noted  at  the  top  of  the  load  the  mattress  on 
which  he  had  lain  for  three  nights  and  the  blankets  that  had 
warmed  him.  But  he  was  proved  not  to  be  so  helpless  as  he 
had  thought.  Again  he  knew  where  a  good  night's  rest  might 
be  had  by  one  using  ordinary  discretion. 

Again  that  day,  the  fourth  of  his  double  life,  he  went  the 
mad  pace,  a  well-fed,  carefree  youth,  sauntering  idly  from 
stage  to  stage,  regarding  nonchalantly  the  joys  and  griefs,  the 
twistings  of  human  destiny  there  variously  unfolded.  Not 
only  was  he  this  to  the  casual  public  notice;  to  himself  he  was 
this,  at  least  consciously.  True,  in  those  nether  regions  of 


154  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

the  mind  so  lately  discovered  and  now  being  so  expertly 
probed  by  Science,  in  the  mind's  dark  basement,  so  to  say,  a 
certain  unlovely  fronted  dragon  of  reality  would  issue  from 
the  gloom  where  it  seemed  to  have  been  lurking  and  force 
itself  upon  his  notice. 

This  would  be  at  oddly  contented  moments  when  he  least 
feared  the  future,  when  he  was  most  successfully  being  to 
himself  all  that  he  must  seem  to  others.  At  such  times  when 
he  leisurely  walked  a  world  of  plenty  and  fruition,  the  dragon 
would  half -emerge  from  its  subconscious  lair  to  chill  him  with 
its  head  composed  entirely  of  repellent  facts.  Then  a  stout 
effort  would  be  required  to  send  the  thing  back  where  it 
belonged,  to  those  lower,  decently  hidden  levels  of  the  mind- 
life. 

And  the  dragon  was  cunning.  From  hour  to  hour,  growing 
more  restive,  it  employed  devices  of  craft  and  subtlety.  As 
when  Merton  Gill,  carefree  to  the  best  of  his  knowledge, 
strolling  lightly  to  another  point  of  interest,  graciously 
receptive  to  the  pleasant  life  about  him,  would  suddenly  dis- 
cover that  a  part  of  his  mind  without  superintendence  had 
for  some  moments  been  composing  a  letter,  something  that 
ran  in  effect : 

"Mr.  Gashwiler,  dear  sir,  I  have  made  certain  changes  in 
my  plans  since  I  first  came  to  sunny  California  and  getting 
quite  a  little  homesick  for  good  old  Simsbury  and  I  thought  I 
would  write  you  about  taking  back  my  old  job  in  the  em- 
porium, and  now  about  the  money  for  the  ticket  back  to 
Simsbury,  the  railroad  fare  is " 

He  was  truly  amazed  when  he  found  this  sort  of  thing 
going  on  in  that  part  of  his  mind  he  didn't  watch.  It  was 
scandalous.  He  would  indignantly  snatch  the  half -finished 
letter  and  tear  it  up  each  time  he  found  it  unaccountably 
under  way. 

It  was  surely  funny  the  way  your  mind  would  keep  doing 
things  you  didn't  want  it  to  do.  As,  again,  this  very  morning 
when,  with  his  silver  coin  out  in  his  hand,  he  had  merely 
wished  to  regard  it  as  a  great  deal  of  silver  coin,  a  store  of 


MORE  WAYS  THAN  ONE  155 

plenty  against  famine,  which  indeed  it  looked  to  be  under  a 
not -too -minute  scrutiny.  It  looked  like  as  much  as  two- 
dollars  and  fifty  cents,  and  he  would  have  preferred  to  pocket 
it  again  with  this  impression.  Yet  that  rebellious  other  part 
of  his  mind  had  basely  counted  the  coin  even  while  he  eyed 
it  approvingly,  and  it  had  persisted  in  shouting  aloud  that  it 
was  not  two  dollars  and  fifty  cents  but  one  dollar  and  eighty- 
five  cents. 

The  counting  part  of  the  mind  made  no  comment  on  this 
discrepancy;  it  did  not  say  that  this  discovery  put  things 
in  a  very  different  light.  It  merely  counted,  registered  the 
result,  and  ceased  to  function,  with  an  air  of  saying  that  it 
would  ascertain  the  facts  without  prejudice  and  you  could  do 
what  you  liked  about  them.  It  didn't  care. 

That  night  a  solitary  guest  enjoyed  the  quiet  hospitality  of 
the  Crystal  Palace  Hotel.  He  might  have  been  seen — but 
was  not — to  effect  a  late  evening  entrance  to  this  snug  inn 
by  means  of  a  front  window  which  had,  it  would  seem,  at 
some  earlier  hour  of  the  day,  been  unfastened  from  within. 
Here  a  not-too-luxurious  but  sufficing  bed  was  contrived  on 
the  floor  of  the  lobby  from  a  pile  of  neatly  folded  blankets  at 
hand,  and  a  second  night's  repose  was  enjoyed  by  the  lonely 
patron,  who  again  at  an  early  hour  of  the  morning,  after 
thoughtfully  refolding  the  blankets  that  had  protected  him, 
was  at  some  pains  to  leave  the  place  as  he  had  entered  it 
without  attracting  public  notice,  perchance  of  unpleasant 
character. 

On  this  day  it  would  not  have  been  possible  for  any  part  of 
the  mind  whatsoever  to  mis  value  the  remaining  treasure  of 
silver  coin.  It  had  become  inconsiderable,  and  even  if  kept 
from  view  could  be,  and  was,  counted  again  and  again  by 
mere  blind  fingertips.  They  contracted,  indeed,  a  senseless 
habit  of  confining  themselves  in  a  trouser's  pocket  to  count 
the  half-dollar,  the  quarter,  and  the  two  dimes  long  after  the 
total  was  too  well  known  to  its  owner. 

Nor  did  this  total,  unimpressive  at  best,  long  retain  even 
these  poor  dimensions.  A  visit  to  the  cafeteria,  in  response 


156  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

to  the  imperious  demands  of  a  familiar  organic  process,  re- 
sulted in  less  labour,  by  two  dimes,  for  the  stubbornly  reiter- 
ative fingertips.  An  ensuing  visit  to  the  Holden  lot  barber, 
in  obedience  to  social  demands  construed  to  be  equally 
imperious  with  the  physical,  reduced  all  subsequent  counting, 
whether  by  fingertips  or  a  glance  of  the  eye,  to  barest  me- 
chanical routine.  A  single  half-dollar  is  easy  to  count. 
Still,  on  the  following  morning  there  were  two  coins  to  count. 
True,  both  were  dimes. 

A  diligent  search  among  the  miscellany  of  the  Crystal 
Palace  Hotel  had  failed  to  reveal  a  single  razor.  The  razor 
used  by  the  miner  should  in  all  reason  have  been  found,  but 
there  was  neither  that  nor  any  other.  The  baffled  seeker 
believed  there  must  have  been  crooked  work  somewhere. 
Without  hesitation  he  found  either  Jimmie  or  his  companion 
to  be  guilty  of  malfeasance  in  office.  But  at  least  one  item  of 
more  or  less  worried  debate  was  eliminated.  He  need  no 
longer  weigh  mere  surface  gentility  against  the  stern  demands 
of  an  active  metabolism.  A  shave  cost  a  quarter.  Twenty 
cents  would  not  buy  a  shave,  but  it  would  buy  at  the  cafe- 
teria something  more  needful  to  any  one  but  a  fop. 

He  saw  himself  in  the  days  to  come — if  there  were 
very  many  days  to  come,  of  which  he  was  now  not  too  certain 
— descending  to  the  unwholesome  artistic  level  of  the  elder 
Montague.  He  would,  in  short,  be  compelled  to  peddle  the 
brush.  And  of  course  as  yet  it  was  nothing  like  a  brush — 
nothing  to  kindle  the  eye  of  a  director  needing  genuine 
brushes.  In  the  early  morning  light  he  fingered  a  somewhat 
gaunt  chin  and  wondered  how  long  "they"  would  require  to 
grow.  Not  yet  could  he  be  taken  for  one  of  those  actors 
compelled  by  the  rigorous  exactions  of  creative  screen  art  to 
let  Nature  have  its  course  with  his  beard.  At  present  he 
merely  needed  a  shave. 

And  the  collar  had  not  improved  with  usage.  Also,  as 
the  day  wore  on,  coffee  with  one  egg  proved  to  have  been  not 
long-enduring  fare  for  this  private  in  the  army  of  the  un- 
employed. Still,  his  morale  was  but  slightly  impaired. 


MORE  WAYS  THAN  ONE  157 

There  were  always  ways,  it  seemed.  And  the  later  hours  of 
the  hungry  afternoon  were  rather  pleasantly  occupied  in 
dwelling  upon  one  of  them. 

The  sole  guest  of  the  Crystal  Palace  Hotel  entered  the 
hostelry  that  night  somewhat  earlier  than  was  usual;  indeed 
at  the  very  earliest  moment  that  foot  traffic  through  the 
narrow  street  seemed  to  have  diminished  to  a  point  where  the 
entry  could  be  effected  without  incurring  the  public  notice 
which  he  at  these  moments  so  sincerely  shunned.  After  a 
brief  interval  inside  the  lobby  he  issued  from  his  window 
with  certain  objects  in  hand,  one  of  which  dropped  as  he 
clambered  out.  The  resulting  clamour  seemed  to  rouse  far 
echoes  along  the  dead  street,  and  he  hastily  withdrew,  with 
a  smothered  exclamation  of  dismay,  about  the  nearest  corner 
of  the  building  until  it  could  be  ascertained  that  echoes  alone 
had  been  aroused. 

After  a  little  breathless  waiting  he  slunk  down  the  street, 
keeping  well  within  friendly  shadows,  stepping  softly,  until  he 
reached  the  humble  cabin  where  so  lately  the  honest  miners 
had  enacted  their  heart-tragedy.  He  jerked  the  latch-string 
of  the  door  and  was  swiftly  inside,  groping  a  way  to  the  fire- 
place. Here  he  lighted  matches,  thoughtfully  appropriated 
that  morning  from  the  cafeteria  counter.  He  shielded  the 
blaze  with  one  hand  while  with  the  other  he  put  to  use  the 
articles  he  had  brought  from  his  hotel. 

Into  a  tin  cooking  pot  with  a  long  hand'e  he  now  hastily 
ladled  well-cooked  beans  from  the  discarded  heap  in  the  fire- 
place, by  means  of  an  iron  spoon.  He  was  not  too  careful. 
More  or  less  ashes  accompanied  the  nutritious  vegetables  as 
the  pot  grew  to  be  half  full.  That  was  a  thing  to  be  corrected 
later,  and  at  leisure.  When  the  last  bean  had  been  salvaged 
the  flame  of  another  match  revealed  an  unsuspected  item — > 
a  half -loaf  of  bread  nestled  in  the  ashes  at  the  far  corner  of  the 
fireplace.  It  lacked  freshness;  was,  in  truth,  withered  and 
firm  to  the  touch,  but  doubtless  more  wholesome  than  bread 
freshly  baked.  * 

He  was  again  on  his  humble  cot  in  the  seclusion  of  the 


158  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

Crystal  Palace  Hotel.  Half -reclining,  he  ate  at  leisure.  It 
being  inadvisable  to  light  matches  here  he  ate  chiefly  by  the 
touch  system.  There  was  a  marked  alkaline  flavour  to  the 
repast,  not  unpleasantly  counteracted  by  a  growth  of  vege- 
table mould  of  delicate  lavender  tints  which  Nature  had  been 
decently  spreading  over  the  final  reduction  of  this  provender 
to  its  basic  elements.  But  the  time  was  not  one  in  which  to 
cavil  about  minor  infelicities.  Ashes  wouldn't  hurt  any  one 
if  taken  in  moderation;  you  couldn't  see  the  mould  in  a 
perfectly  dark  hotel;  and  the  bread  was  good. 

The  feast  was  prolonged  until  a  late  hour,  but  the  finger- 
tips that  had  accurately  counted  money  in  a  dark  pocket 
could  ascertain  in  a  dark  hotel  that  a  store  of  food  still  re- 
mained. He  pulled  the  blankets  about  him  and  sank  com- 
fortably to  rest.  There  was  always  some  way. 

Breakfast  the  next  morning  began  with  the  promise  of  only 
moderate  enjoyment.  Somehow  in  the  gray  light  sifting 
through  the  windows  the  beans  did  not  look  as  good  as  they 
had  tasted  the  night  before,  and  the  early  mouthfuls  were  less 
blithesome  on  the  palate  than  the  remembered  ones  of  yester- 
day. He  thought  perhaps  he  was  not  so  hungry  as  he  had 
been  at  his  first  encounter  with  them.  He  delicately  re- 
moved a  pocket  of  ashes  from  the  centre,  and  tried  again. 
They  tasted  better  now.  The  mould  of  tender  tints  was 
again  visible  but  he  made  no  effort  to  avoid  it.  For  his 
appetite  had  reawakened.  He  was  truly  hungry,  and  ate 
with  an  entire  singleness  of  purpose. 

Toward  the  last  of  the  meal  his  conscious  self  feebly 
prompted  him  to  quit,  to  save  against  the  inevitable  hunger 
of  the  night.  But  the  voice  was  ignored.  He  was  now  clay 
to  the  moulding  of  the  subconscious.  He  could  have  saved 
a  few  of  the  beans  when  reason  was  again  enthroned,  but  they 
were  so  very  few  that  he  fatuously  thought  them  not  worth 
saving.  Might  as  well  make  a  clean  job  of  it.  He  restored 
the  stewpan  and  spoon  to  their  places  and  left  his  hotel.  He 
was  fed.  To-day  something  else  would  have  to  happen. 

The  plush  hat  cocked  at  a  rakish  angle,  he  walked  abroad 


MORE  WAYS  THAN  ONE  159 

with  something  of  the  old  confident  swagger.  Once  he  doubt- 
fully fingered  the  sprouting  beard,  but  resolutely  dismissed 
a  half -formed  notion  of  finding  out  how  the  Holden  lot  barber 
would  regard  a  proposition  from  a  new  patron  to  open  a 
charge  account.  If  nothing  worse  than  remaining  unshaven 
was  going  to  happen  to  him,  what  cared  he?  The  collar  was 
still  pretty  good.  Why  let  his  beard  be  an  incubus?  He 
forgot  it  presently  in  noticing  that  the  people  arriving  on  the 
Holden  lot  all  looked  so  extremely  well  fed.  He  thought  it 
singular  that  he  should  never  before  have  noticed  how  many 
well-fed  people  one  saw  in  a  day. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  his  explorations  took  him  beyond 
the  lower  end  of  his  little  home  street,  and  he  was  attracted 
by  sounds  of  the  picture  drama  from  a  rude  board  structure 
labelled  the  High  Gear  Dance  Hall.  He  approached  and 
entered  with  that  calm  ease  of  manner  which  his  days  on  the 
lot  had  brought  to  a  perfect  bloom.  No  one  now  would  ever 
suppose  that  he  was  a  mere  sightseer  or  chained  to  the  Holden 
lot  by  circumstances  over  which  he  had  ceased  to  exert  the 
slightest  control. 

The  interior  of  the  High  Gear  Dance  Hall  presented  noth- 
ing new  to  his  seasoned  eye.  It  was  the  dance-hall  made 
familiar  by  many  a  smashing  five-reel  Western.  The  picture 
was,  quite  normally,  waiting.  Electricians  were  shoving 
about  the  big  light  standards,  cameras  were  being  moved,  and 
bored  actors  were  loafing  informally  at  the  round  tables  or 
chatting  in  groups  about  the  set. 

One  actor  alone  was  keeping  in  his  part.  A  ragged, 
bearded,  unkempt  elderly  man  in  red  shirt  and  frayed  over- 
alls, a  repellent  felt  hat  pulled  low  over  his  brow,  reclined 
on  the  floor  at  the  end  of  the  bar,  his  back  against  a  barrel. 
Apparently  he  slept.  A  flash  of  remembrance  from  the 
Montague  girl's  talk  identified  this  wretched  creature.  This 
was  what  happened  to  an  actor  who  had  to  peddle  the  brush. 
Perhaps  for  days  he  had  been  compelled  to  sleep  there  in  the 
interests  of  dance-hall  atmosphere. 

He  again  scanned  the  group,  for  he  remembered,  too,  that 


160  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

the  Montague  girl  would  also  be  working  here  in  God's  Great 
Outdoors.  His  eyes  presently  found  her.  She  was  indeed  a 
blonde  hussy,  short-skirted,  low-necked,  pitifully  rouged, 
depraved  beyond  redemption.  She  stood  at  the  end  of  the 
piano,  and  in  company  with  another  of  the  dance-hall  girls 
who  played  the  accompaniment,  she  was  singing  a  ballad  the 
refrain  of  which  he  caught  as  "God  calls  them  Angels  in 
Heaven,  we  call  them  Mothers  here." 

The  song  ended,  the  Montague  girl  stepped  to  the  centre 
of  the  room,  looked  aimlessly  about  her,  then  seized  an 
innocent  bystander,  one  of  the  rough  characters  frequenting 
this  unsavoury  resort,  and  did  a  dance  with  him  among  the 
tables.  Tiring  of  this,  she  flitted  across  the  room  and 
addressed  the  bored  director  who  impatiently  awaited  the 
changing  of  lights.  She  affected  to  consider  him  a  reporter 
who  had  sought  an  interview  with  her.  She  stood  erect,  fac- 
ing him  with  one  hand  on  a  hip,  the  other  patting  and  re- 
adjusting her  blonde  coiffure. 

"Really,"  she  began  in  a  voice  of  pained  dignity,  "I  am  at  a 
loss  to  understand  why  the  public  should  be  so  interested  in 
me.  What  can  I  say  to  your  readers — I  who  am  so  wholly 
absorbed  in  my  art  that  I  can't  think  of  hardly  anything  else? 
Why  will  not  the  world  let  us  alone?  Hold  on — don't  go!" 
She  had  here  pretended  that  the  reporter  was  taking  her  at 
her  word.  She  seized  him  by  a  lapel  to  which  she  clung  while 
with  her  other  arm  she  encircled  a  post,  thus  anchoring  the 
supposed  intruder  into  her  private  affairs.  "As  I  wrs  say- 
ing," she  resumed,  "all  this  publicity  is  highly  distasteful  to 
the  artist,  and  yet  since  you  have  forced  yourself  in  here  I 
may  as  well  say  a  few  little  things  about  how  good  I  am  and 
how  I  got  that  way.  Yes,  I  have  nine  motor  cars,  and  I 
just  bought  a  lace  tablecloth  for  twelve  hundred  bones " 

She  broke  off  inconsequently,  poor  victim  of  her  con- 
stitutional frivolity.  The  director  grinned  after  her  as  she 
danced  away,  though  Merton  Gill  had  considered  her  levity 
in  the  worst  of  taste.  Then  her  eye  caught  him  as  he  stood 
modestly  back  of  the  working  electricians,  and  she  danced 


MORE  WAYS  THAN  ONE  161 

forward  again  in  his  direction.  He  would  have  liked  to 
evade  her  but  saw  that  he  could  not  do  this  gracefully. 

She  greeted  him  with  an  impudent  grin.  "Why,  hello, 
trouper !  As  I  live,  the  actin'  Kid ! "  She  held  out  a  hand  to 
him  and  he  could  not  well  refuse  it.  He  would  have  preferred 
to  "up-stage"  her  once  more,  as  she  had  phrased  it  in  her  low 
jargon,  but  he  was  cornered.  Her  grip  of  his  hand  quite 
astonished  him  with  its  vigour. 

"Well,  how's  everything  with  you?    Everything  jake?" 

He  tried  for  a  show  of  easy  confidence.  "Oh,  yes,  yes, 
indeed,  everything  is." 

"  Well,  that's  good,  Kid."  Bat  she  was  now  without  the  grin, 
and  was  running  a  practised  eye  over  what  might  have  been 
called  his  production.  The  hat  was  jaunty  enough,  truly  a 
hat  of  the  successful,  but  all  below  that,  the  not-too-fresh 
collar,  the  somewhat  rumpled  coat,  the  trousers  crying  for  an 
iron  despite  their  nightly  compression  beneath  their  slumber- 
ing owner,  the  shoes  not  too  recently  polished,  and,  more  than 
all,  a  certain  hunted  though  still-defiant  look  in  the  young 
man's  eyes,  seemed  to  speak  eloquently  under  the  shrewd 
glance  she  bent  on  him. 

"Say,  listen  here,  Old-timer,  remember  I  been  trouping 
man  and  boy  for  over  forty  year  and  it's  hard  to  fool  me — you 
working?" 

He  resented  the  persistent  levity  of  manner,  but  was 
coerced  by  the  very  apparent  real  kindness  in  her  tone. 
"Well,"  he  looked  about  the  set  vaguely  in  his  discomfort, 
"you  see,  right  now  I'm  between  pictures — you  know  how  it 
is." 

Again  she  searched  his  eyes  and  spoke  in  a  lower  tone: 
"Well,  all  right— but  you  needn't  blush  about  it,  Kid."  The 
blush  she  detected  became  more  flagrant. 

"Well,  I — you  see "  he  began  again,  but  he  was  saved 

from  being  explicit  by  the  call  of  an  assistant  director. 

"Miss  Montague.  Miss  Montague — where 's  that  Flips 
girl — on  the  set,  please."  She  skipped  lightly  from  him. 
When  she  returned  a  little  later  to  look  for  him  he  had  gone. 


162  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

He  went  to  bed  that  night  when  darkness  had  made  this 
practicable,  and  under  his  blankets  whiled  away  a  couple  of 
wakeful  hours  by  running  tensely  dramatic  films  of  break- 
fast, dinner,  and  supper  at  the  Gashwiler  home.  It  seemed 
that  you  didn't  fall  asleep  so  quickly  when  you  had  eaten 
nothing  since  early  morning.  Never  had  he  achieved  such 
perfect  photography  as  now  of  the  Gashwiler  corned-beef 
hash  and  light  biscuits,  the  Gashwiler  hot  cakes  and  sausage, 
and  never  had  Gashwiler  so  impressively  carved  the  Saturday 
night  four-rib  roast  of  tender  beef.  Gashwiler  achieved  a 
sensational  triumph  in  the  scene,  being  accorded  all  the  close- 
ups  that  the  most  exacting  of  screen  actors  could  wish.  His 
knife-work  was  perfect.  He  held  his  audience  enthralled  by 
his  technique. 

Mrs.  Gashwiler,  too,  had  a  small  but  telling  part  in  the 
drama  to-night;  only  a  character  bit,  but  one  of  those  poig- 
nant bits  that  stand  out  in  the  memory.  The  subtitle  was, 
"Merton,  won't  you  let  me  give  you  another  piece  of  the 
mince  pie?"  That  was  all,  and  yet,  as  screen  artists  say, 
it  got  over.  There  came  very  near  to  being  not  a  dry  eye  in 
the  house  when  the  simple  words  were  flashed  beside  an  in- 
sert of  thick,  flaky-topped  mince  pies  with  quarters  r-u*  from. 
them  to  reveal  their  noble  interiors 

Sleep  came  at  last  while  he  was  regretting  that  lawless  orgy 
of  the  morning.  He  needn't  have  cleaned  up  those  beans  in 
that  silly  way.  He  could  have  left  a  good  half  of  them.  He 
ran  what  might  have  been  considered  a  split-reel  comedy  of 
the  stew-pan's  bottom  still  covered  with  perfectly  edible 
beans  lightly  protected  with  Nature's  own  pastel-tinted 
shroud  for  perishing  vegetable  matter  and  diversified  here 
and  there  with  casual  small  deposits  of  ashes. 

In  the  morning  something  good  really  did  happen.  As 
he  folded  his  blankets  in  the  gray  light  a  hard  object  rattled 
along  the  floor  from  them.  He  picked  this  up  before  he 
recognized  it  as  a  mutilated  fragment  from  the  stale  half- 
loaf  of  bread  he  had  salvaged.  He  wondered  how  he  could 
have  forgotten  it,  even  in  the  plenitude  of  his  banquet. 


MORE  WAYS  THAN  ONE  163 

There  it  was,  a  mere  nubbin  of  crust  and  so  hard  it  might  al- 
most have  been  taken  for  a  petrified  specimen  of  prehistoric 
bread.  Yet  it  proved  to  be  rarely  palatable.  It's  flavour 
was  exquisite.  It  melted  in  the  mouth. 

Somewhat  refreshed  by  this  modest  cheer,  he  climbed  from 
the  window  of  the  Crystal  Palace  with  his  mind  busy  on  two 
tracks.  While  the  letter  to  Gashwiler  composed  itself,  with 
especially  clear  directions  about  where  the  return  money 
should  be  sent,  he  was  also  warning  himself  to  remain 
throughout  the  day  at  a  safe  distance  from  the  door  of  the 
cafeteria.  He  had  proved  the  wisdom  of  this  even  the  day 
before  that  had  started  with  a  bounteous  breakfast.  To-day 
the  aroma  of  cooked  food  occasionally  wafted  from  the 
cafeteria  door  would  prove,  he  was  sure,  to  be  more  than  he 
could  bear. 

He  rather  shunned  the  stages  to-day,  keeping  more  to 
himself.  The  collar,  he  had  to  confess,  was  no  longer,  even 
to  the  casual  eye,  what  a  successful  screen-actor's  collar 
should  be.  The  sprouting  beard  might  still  be  misconstrued 
as  the  whim  of  a  director  sanctified  to  realism — every  day  it 
was  getting  to  look  more  like  that — but  no  director  would 
have  commanded  the  wearing  of  such  a  collar  except  in 
actual  work  where  it  might  have  been  a  striking  detail  in  the 
apparel  of  an  underworking,  one  of  those  creatures  who 
became  the  tools  of  rich  but  unscrupulous  roues  who  are  bent 
upon  the  moral  destruction  of  beautiful  young  screen  hero- 
ines. He  knew  it  was  now  that  sort  of  collar.  No  use  now  in 
pretending  that  it  had  been  worn  yesterday  for  the  first  time. 


CHAPTER  X 

OF    SHATTERED    ILLUSIONS 

^|  ^HE  next  morning  he  sat  a  long  time  in  the  genial 
sunlight  watching  carpenters  finish  a  scaffolding 
•*-  beside  the  pool  that  had  once  floated  logs  to  a  saw- 
mill. The  scaffolding  was  a  stout  affair  supporting  an 
immense  tank  that  would,  evidently  for  some  occult  reason 
important  to  screen  art,  hold  a  great  deal  of  water.  The  saw- 
mill was  gone;  at  one  end  of  the  pool  rode  a  small  sail-boat 
with  one  mast,  its  canvas  flapping  idly  in  a  gentle  breeze. 
Its  deck  was  littered  with  rigging  upon  which  two  men 
worked.  They  seemed  to  be  getting  things  shipshape 
for  a  cruise. 

When  he  had  tired  of  this  he  started  off  toward  the  High 
Gear  Dance  Hall.  Something  all  day  had  been  drawing  him 
there  against  his  will.  He  hesitated  to  believe  it  was  the 
Montague  girl's  kindly  manner  toward  him  the  day  before, 
yet  he  could  identify  no  other  influence.  Probably  it  was 
that.  Yet  he  didn't  want  to  face  her  again,  even  if  for  a 
moment  she  had  quit  trying  to  be  funny,  even  if  for  a  mo- 
ment her  eyes  had  searched  his  quite  earnestly,  her  broad, 
amiable  face  glowing  with  that  sudden  friendly  concern.  It 
had  been  hard  to  withstand  this  yesterday;  he  had  been 
in  actual  danger  of  confiding  to  her  that  engagements  of  late 
were  not  plentiful — something  like  that.  And  it  would 
be  harder  to-day.  Even  the  collar  would  make  it  harder  to 
resist  the  confidence  that  he  was  not  at  this  time  over- 
whelmed with  offers  for  his  art. 

He  had  for  what  seemed  like  an  interminable  stretch  of 
time  been  solitary  and  an  outlaw.  It  was  something  to 

164 


OF  SHATTERED  ILLUSIONS  165 

have  been  spoken  to  by  a  human  being  who  expressed  ever 
so  fleeting  an  interest  in  his  affairs,  even  by  someone  as 
inconsequent,  as  negligible  in  the  world  of  screen  artistry 
as  this  lightsome  minx  who,  because  of  certain  mental 
infirmities,  could  never  hope  for  the  least  enviable  eminence 
in  a  profession  demanding  seriousness  of  purpose.  Still 
it  would  be  foolish  to  go  again  to  the  set  where  she  was. 
She  might  think  he  was  encouraging  her. 

So  he  passed  the  High  Gear,  where  a  four-horse  stage, 
watched  by  two  cameras,  was  now  releasing  its  passengers 
who  all  appeared  to  be  direct  from  New  York,  and  walked 
on  to  an  outdoor  set  that  promised  entertainment.  This 
was  the  narrow  street  of  some  quaint  European  village, 
Scotch  he  soon  saw  from  the  dress  of  its  people.  A  large 
automobile  was  invading  this  remote  hamlet  to  the  dismay 
of  its  inhabitants.  Rehearsed  through  a  megaphone  they 
scurried  within  doors  at  its  approach,  ancient  men  hobbling 
on  sticks  and  frantic  mothers  grabbing  their  little  ones  from 
the  path  of  the  monster.  Two  trial  trips  he  saw  the  car  make 
the  length  of  the  little  street. 

At  its  lower  end,  brooding  placidly,  was  an  ancient  horse 
rather  recalling  Dexter  in  his  generously  exposed  bones 
and  the  jaded  droop  of  his  head  above  a  low  stone  wall. 
Twice  the  car  sped  by  him,  arousing  no  sign  of  apprehension 
nor  even  of  interest.  He  paid  it  not  so  much  as  the  tribute 
of  a  raised  eyelid. 

The  car  went  back  to  the  head  of  the  street  where  its  en- 
trance would  be  made.  "All  right — ready!"  came  the  mega- 
phoned order.  Again  the  peaceful  street  was  thrown  into 
panic  by  this  snorting  dragon  from  the  outer  world.  The 
old  men  hobbled  affrightedly  within  doors,  the  mothers 
saved  their  children.  And  this  time,  to  the  stupefaction  of 
Merton  Gill,  even  the  old  horse  proved  to  be  an  actor  of  rare 
merits.  As  the  car  approached  he  seemed  to  suffer  a  pain- 
ful shock.  He  tossed  his  aged  head,  kicked  viciously  with 
his  rear  feet,  stood  absurdly  aloft  on  them,  then  turned  and 
fled  from  the  monster.  As  Merton  mused  upon  the  genius 


166  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

of  the  trainer  who  had  taught  his  horse  not  only  to  betray 
fright  at  a  motor  car  but  to  distinguish  between  rehearsals 
and  the  actual  taking  of  a  scene,  he  observed  a  man  who 
emerged  from  a  clump  of  near-by  shrubbery.  He  carried  a 
shotgun.  This  was  broken  at  the  breech  and  the  man  was 
blowing  smoke  from  the  barrels  as  he  came  on. 

So  that  was  it.  The  panic  of  the  old  horse  had  been  but 
a  simple  reaction  to  a  couple  of  charges  of — perhaps  rock- 
salt.  Merton  Gill  hoped  it  had  been  nothing  sterner.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  screen  career  he  became  cynical  about 
his  art.  A  thing  of  shame,  of  machinery,  of  subterfuge. 
Nothing  would  be  real,  perhaps  not  even  the  art. 

It  is  probable  that  lack  of  food  conduced  to  this  disparag- 
ing outlook;  and  he  recovered  presently,  for  he  had  been 
smitten  with  a  quick  vision  of  Beulah  Baxter  in  one  of  her 
most  daring  exploits.  She,  at  least,  was  real.  Deaf  to 
entreaty,  she  honestly  braved  her  hazards.  It  was  a  com- 
forting thought  after  this  late  exposure  of  a  sham. 

In  this  slightly  combative  mood  he  retraced  his  steps 
and  found  himself  outside  the  High  Gear  Dance  Hall,  forti- 
fied for  another  possible  encounter  with  the  inquiring  and 
obviously  sympathetic  Montague  girl.  He  entered  and  saw 
that  she  was  not  on  the  set.  The  bar-room  dance-hall  was 
for  the  moment  deserted  of  its  ribald  crew  while  an  honest 
inhabitant  of  the  open  spaces  on  a  balcony  was  holding  a 
large  revolver  to  the  shrinking  back  of  one  of  the  New  York 
men  who  had  lately  arrived  by  the  stage.  He  forced  this 
man,  who  was  plainly  not  honest,  to  descend  the  stairs  and 
to  sign,  at  a  table,  a  certain  paper.  Then,  with  weapon  still 
in  hand,  the  honest  Westerner  forced  the  cowardly  New 
Yorker  in  the  direction  of  the  front  door  until  they  had 
passed  out  of  the  picture. 

On  this  the  bored  director  of  the  day  before  called  loudly, 
"Now,  boys,  in  your  places.  You've  heard  a  shot — you're 
running  outside  to  see  what's  the  matter.  On  your  toes, 
now — try  it  once."  From  rear  doors  came  the  motley  fre- 
quenters of  the  place,  led  by  the  elder  Montague. 


OF  SHATTERED  ILLUSIONS  167 

They  trooped  to  the  front  in  two  lines  and  passed  from 
the  picture.  Here  they  milled  about,  waiting  for  further 
orders. 

"Rotten!"  called  the  director.  "Rotten  and  then  some. 
Listen.  You  came  like  a  lot  of  children  marching  out  of  a 
public  school.  Don't  come  in  lines,  break  it  up,  push  each 
other,  fight  to  get  ahead,  and  you're  noisy ,  too.  You're  shout- 
ing. You're  saying,  *  What's  this?  What's  it  all  about? 
What's  the  matter?  Which  way  did  he  go?'  Say  anything 
you  want  to,  but  keep  shouting — anything  at  all.  Say  'Thar's 
gold  in  them  hills !'  if  you  can't  think  of  anything  else.  Go 
on,  now,  boys,  do  it  again  and  pep  it,  see.  Turn  the  juice  on, 
open  up  the  old  mufflers." 

The  men  went  back  through  the  rear  doors.  The  late 
caller  would  here  have  left,  being  fed  up  with  this  sort  of 
stuff,  but  at  that  moment  he  descried  the  Montague  girl 
back  behind  a  light-standard.  She  had  not  noted  him,  but 
was  in  close  talk  with  a  man  he  recognized  as  Jeff  Baird, 
arch  perpetrator  of  the  infamous  Buckeye  comedies.  They 
came  toward  him,  still  talking,  as  he  looked. 

"We '11  finish  here  to-morrow  afternoon,  anyway,"  the  girl 
was  saying. 

"Fine,"  said  Baird.  "That  makes  everything  jake.  Get 
over  on  the  set  whenever  you're  through.  Come  over  to- 
night if  they  don't  shoot  here,  just  to  give  us  a  look-in." 

"Can't,"  said  the  girl.  "Soon  as  I  get  out  o'  this  dump 
I  got  to  eat  on  the  lot  and  everything  and  be  over  to  Baxter's 
layout — she'll  be  doing  tank  stuff  till  all  hours — shipwreck 
and  murder  and  all  like  that.  Gosh,  I  hope  it  ain't  cold. 
I  don't  mind  the  water,  but  I  certainly  hate  to  get  out  and 
wait  in  wet  clothes  while  Sig  Rosenblatt  is  thinking  about 
a  retake." 

"Well" — Baird  turned  to  go — "take  care  of  yourself — 
don't  dive  and  forget  to  come  up.  Come  over  when  you're 
ready." 

"Sure!  S'long!"  Here  the  girl,  turning  from  Baird, 
noted  Merton  Gill  beside  her. 


168  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"Well,  well,  as  I  live,  the  actin'  kid  once  more!  Say, 
you're  getting  to  be  a  regular  studio  hound,  ain't  you?" 

For  the  moment  he  had  forgotten  his  troubles.  He  was 
burning  to  ask  her  if  Beulah  Baxter  would  really  work  in  a 
shipwreck  scene  that  night  at  the  place  where  he  had  watched 
the  carpenters  and  the  men  on  the  sailboat;  but  as  he  tried 
to  word  this  he  saw  that  the  girl  was  again  scanning  him  with 
keen  eyes.  He  knew  she  would  read  the  collar,  the  beard, 
perhaps  even  a  look  of  mere  hunger  that  he  thought  must  now 
be  showing. 

"Say,  see  here,  Trouper,  what's  the  shootin*  all  about, 
anyway?  You  up  against  it — yes."  There  was  again  in 
her  eye  the  look  of  warm  concern,  and  she  was  no  longer 
trying  to  be  funny.  He  might  now  have  admitted  a  few 
little  things  about  his  screen  career,  but  again  the  director 
interrupted. 

"Miss  Montague — where  are  you?  Oh!  Well,  remem- 
ber you're  behind  the  piano  during  that  gun  play  just 
now,  and  you  stay  hid  till  after  the  boys  get  out.  We'll 
shoot  this  time,  so  get  set." 

She  sped  off,  with  a  last  backward  glance  of  questioning. 
He  waited  but  a  moment  before  leaving.  He  was  almost 
forgetting  his  hunger  in  the  pretty  certain  knowledge  that 
in  a  few  hours  he  would  actually  behold  his  wonder-woman  in 
at  least  one  of  her  daring  exploits.  Shipwreck!  Perhaps 
she  would  be  all  but  drowned.  He  hastened  back  to  the 
pool  that  had  now  acquired  this  high  significance.  The 
carpenters  were  still  puttering  about  on  the  scaffold.  He  saw 
that  platforms  for  the  cameras  had  been  built  out  from  its 
side. 

He  noted,  too,  and  was  puzzled  by  an  aeroplane  propeller 
that  had  been  stationed  close  to  one  corner  of  the  pool,  just 
beyond  the  stern  of  the  little  sailing-craft.  Perhaps  there 
would  be  an  aeroplane  wreck  in  addition  to  a  shipwreck. 
Now  he  had  something  besides  food  to  think  of.  And  he 
wondered  what  the  Montague  girl  could  be  doing  in  the 
company  of  a  really  serious  artist  like  Beulah  Baxter.  From 


OF  SHATTERED  ILLUSIONS  169 

her  own  story  she  was  going  to  get  wet,  but  from  what  he 
knew  of  her  she  would  be  some  character  not  greatly  missed 
from  the  cast  if  she  should,  as  Baird  had  suggested,  dive  and 
forget  to  come  up.  He  supposed  that  Baird  had  meant 
this  to  be  humorous,  the  humour  typical  of  a  man  who  could 
profane  a  great  art  with  the  atrocious  Buckeye  comedies,  so 
called. 

He  put  in  the  hours  until  nightfall  in  aimless  wandering 
and  idle  gazing,  and  was  early  at  the  pool-side  where  his 
heroine  would  do  her  sensational  acting.  It  was  now  a 
scene  of  thrilling  activity.  Immense  lights,  both  from  the 
scaffolding  and  from  a  tower  back  of  the  sailing-craft,  flooded 
its  deck  and  rigging  from  time  to  time  as  adjustments  were 
made.  The  rigging  was  slack  and  the  deck  was  still  littered, 
intentionally  so,  he  now  perceived.  The  gallant  little  boat 
had  been  cruelly  buffeted  by  a  gale.  Two  sailors  in  pirati- 
cal dress  could  be  seen  to  emerge  at  intervals  from  the  cabin. 

Suddenly  the  gale  was  on  with  terrific  force,  the  sea  rose 
in  great  waves,  and  the  tiny  ship  rocked  in  a  perilous  manner. 
Great  billows  of  water  swept  its  decks.  Merton  Gill  stared 
in  amaz3ment  at  these  phenomena  so  dissonant  with  the 
quiet  starlit  night.  Then  he  traced  them  without  difficulty 
to  their  various  sources.  The  gale  issued  from  the  swift 
revolutions  of  that  aeroplane  propeller  he  had  noticed  a 
while  ago.  The  flooding  billows  were  spilled  from  the  big 
tank  at  the  top  of  the  scaffold  and  the  boat  rocked  in  obe- 
dience to  the  tugging  of  a  rope — tugged  from  the  shore  by  a 
crew  of  helpers — that  ran  to  the  top  of  its  mast.  Thus  had 
the  storm  been  produced. 

A  spidery,  youngish  man  from  one  of  the  platforms  built 
out  from  the  scaffold,  now  became  sharply  vocal  through  a 
megaphone  to  assistants  who  were  bending  the  elements 
to  the  need  of  this  particular  hazard  of  Hortense.  He  called 
directions  to  the  men  who  tugged  the  rope,  to  the  men  in 
control  of  the  lights,  and  to  another  who  seemed  to  create 
the  billows.  Among  other  items  he  wished  more  action 
for  the  boat  and  more  water  for  the  billows.  "See  that 


170  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

your  tank  gets  full-up  this  time/'  he  called,  whereupon  an 
engine  under  the  scaffold,  by  means  of  a  large  rubber  hose 
reaching  into  the  pool,  began  to  suck  water  into  the  tank 
above. 

The  speaker  must  be  Miss  Baxter's  director,  the  enviable 
personage  who  saw  her  safely  through  her  perils.  When  one 
of  the  turning  reflectors  illumined  him  Merton  saw  his  face 
of  a  keen  Semitic  type.  He  seemed  to  possess  not  the  most 
engaging  personality;  his  manner  was  aggressive,  he  spoke 
rudely  to  his  doubtless  conscientous  employees,  he  danced  in 
little  rages  of  temper,  and  altogether  he  was  not  one  with 
whom  the  watcher  would  have  cared  to  come  in  contact. 
He  wondered,  indeed,  that  so  puissant  a  star  as  Beulah 
Baxter  should  not  be  able  to  choose  her  own  director,  for 
surely  the  presence  of  this  unlovely,  waspishly  tempered 
being  could  be  nothing  but  an  irritant  in  the  daily  life  of 
the  wonder-woman.  Perhaps  she  had  tolerated  him  merely 
for  one  picture.  Perhaps  he  was  especially  good  in  ship- 
wrecks. 

If  Merton  Gill  were  in  this  company  he  would  surely  have 
words  with  this  person,  director  or  no  director.  He  hastily 
wrote  a  one-reel  scenario  in  which  the  man  so  far  forgot  him- 
self as  to  speak  sharply  to  the  star,  and  in  which  a  certain 
young  actor,  a  new  member  of  the  company,  resented  the 
ungentlemanly  words  by  pitching  the  offender  into  a  con- 
venient pool  and  earned  even  more  than  gratitude  from  the 
starry-eyed  wonder- woman. 

The  objectionable  man  continued  active,  profuse  of  gesture 
and  loud  through  the  megaphone.  Once  more  the  storm. 
The  boat  rocked  threateningly,  the  wind  roared  through  its 
slack  rigging,  and  giant  billows  swept  the  frail  craft.  Light 
as  from  a  half-clouded  moon  broke  through  the  mist  that 
issued  from  a  steam  pipe.  There  was  another  lull,  and  the 
Semitic  type  on  the  platform  became  increasingly  offensive. 
Merton  saw  himself  saying,  "Allow  me,  Miss  Baxter,  to  re- 
lieve you  of  the  presence  of  this  bounder."  The  man  was 
impossible. 


OF  SHATTERED  ILLUSIONS  171 

Constantly  he  had  searched  the  scene  for  his  heroine. 
She  would  probably  not  appear  until  they  were  ready  to 
shoot,  and  this  seemed  not  to  be  at  once  if  the  rising  temper 
of  the  director  could  be  thought  an  indication. 

The  big  hose  again  drew  water  from  the  pool  to  the  tank, 
whence,  at  a  sudden  release,  it  would  issue  in  billows.  The 
big  lights  at  last  seemed  to  be  adjusted  to  the  director's 
whim.  The  aeroplane  propeller  whirred  and  the  gale  was 
found  acceptable.  The  men  at  the  rope  tugged  the  boat 
into  grave  danger.  The  moon  lighted  the  mist  that  over- 
hung the  scene. 

Then  at  last  Merton  started,  peering  eagerly  forward 
across  the  length  of  the  pool.  At  the  far  end,  half  illumined 
by  the  big  lights,  stood  the  familiar  figure  of  his  wonder- 
woman,  the  slim  little  girl  with  the  wistful  eyes.  Plainly 
he  could  see  her  now  as  the  mist  lifted.  She  was  chatting 
with  one  of  the  pirates  who  had  stepped  ashore  from  the 
boat.  The  wonderful  golden  hair  shone  resplendent  under 
the  glancing  rays  of  the  arcs.  A  cloak  was  about  her  shoul- 
ders, but  at  a  word  of  command  from  the  director  she  threw 
it  off  and  stepped  to  the  boat's  deck.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
short  skirt,  her  trim  feet  and  ankles  lightly  shod  and  silken 
clad.  The  sole  maritime  touch  in  her  garb  was  a  figured 
kerchief  at  her  throat  similar  to  those  worn  by  the  piratical 
crew. 

"All  ready,  Hortense — all  ready  Jose  and  Gaston,  get 
your  places." 

Miss  Baxter  acknowledged  the  command  with  that  char- 
acteristic little  wave  of  a  hand  that  he  recalled  from  so  many 
of  her  pictures,  a  half -humorous,  half -mocking  little  defiance. 
She  used  it  often  when  escaping  her  pursuers,  as  if  to  say 
that  she  would  see  them  in  the  next  installment. 

The  star  and  the  two  men  were  now  in  the  cabin,  hidden 
from  view.  Merton  Gill  was  no  seaman,  but  it  occurred 
to  him  that  at  least  one  of  the  crew  would  be  at  the  wheel  in 
this  emergency.  Probably  the  director  knew  no  better. 
Indeed  the  boat,  so  far  as  could  be  discerned,  had  no  wheel. 


172  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

Apparently  when  a  storm  came  up  all  hands  went  down  into 
the  cabin  to  get  away  from  it. 

The  storm  did  come  up  at  this  moment,  with  no  one  on 
deck.  It  struck  with  the  full  force  of  a  tropic  hurricane. 
The  boat  rocked,  the  wind  blew,  and  billows  swept  the  deck. 
At  the  height  of  the  tempest  Beulah  Baxter  sprang  from  the 
cabin  to  the  deck,  clutching  wildly  at  a  stanchion.  Buffeted 
by  the  billlows  she  groped  a  painful  way  along  the  side,  at 
risk  of  being  swept  off  to  her  death. 
•  She  was  followed  by  one  of  the  crew  who  held  a  murderous 
knife  in  his  hand,  then  by  the  other  sailor  who  also  held  a 
knife.  They,  too,  were  swept  by  the  billows,,  but  seemed 
grimly  determined  upon  the  death  of  the  heroine.  Then, 
when  she  reached  midships  and  the  foremost  fiend  was  al- 
most upon  her,  the  mightiest  of  all  the  billows  descended  and 
swept  her  off  into  the  cruel  waters.  Her  pursuers,  saving 
themselves  only  by  great  effort,  held  to  the  rigging  and  stared 
after  the  girl.  They  leaned  far  over  the  ship's  rocking  side 
and  each  looked  from  under  a  spread  hand. 

For  a  distressing  interval  the  heroine  battled  with  the 
waves,  but  her  frail  strength  availed  her  little.  She  raised 
a  despairing  face  for  an  instant  to  the  camera  and  its  agony 
was  illumined.  Then  the  dread  waters  closed  above  her. 
The  director's  whistle  blew,  the  waves  were  stilled,  the 
tumult  ceased.  The  head  of  Beulah  Baxter  appeared  halfway 
down  the  tank.  She  was  swimming  toward  the  end  where 
Merton  stood. 

He  had  been  thrilled  beyond  words  at  this  actual  sight 
of  his  heroine  in  action,  but  now  it  seemed  that  a  new  emotion 
might  overcome  him.  He  felt  faint.  Beulah  Baxter  would 
issue  from  the  pool  there  at  his  feet.  He  might  speak  to 
her,  might  even  help  her  to  climb  out.  At  least  no  one  else 
had  appeared  to  do  this.  Seemingly  no  one  now  cared  where 
Miss  Baxter  swam  to  or  whether  she  were  offered  any  assist- 
ance in  landing.  She  swam  with  an  admirable  crawl 
stroke,  reached  the  wall,  and  put  up  a  hand  to  it.  He  stepped 
forward,  but  she  was  out  before  he  reached  her  side.  His 


OF  SHATTERED  ILLUSIONS  173 

awe  had  delayed  him.  He  drew  back  then,  for  the  star, 
after  vigorously  shaking  herself,  went  to  a  tall  brazier  in 
which  glowed  a  charcoal  fire. 

Here  he  now  noticed  for  the  first  time  the  prop-boy 
Jimmie,  he  who  had  almost  certainly  defaulted  with  an  ex- 
cellent razor.  Jimmie  threw  a  blanket  about  the  star's  shoul- 
ders as  she  hovered  above  the  glowing  coals.  Merton  had 
waited  for  her  voice.  He  might  still  venture  to  speak  to  her 
— to  tell  her  of  his  long  and  profound  admiration  for  her  art. 
Her  voice  came  as  she  shivered  over  the  fire: 

"Murder!  That  water's  cold.  Rosenblatt  swore  he'd 
have  it  warmed  but  I'm  here  to  say  it  wouldn't  boil  an  egg 
in  four  minutes." 

He  could  not  at  first  identify  this  voice  with  the  remem- 
bered tones  of  Beulah  Baxter.  But  of  course  she  was  now 
hoarse  with  the  cold.  Under  the  circumstances  he  could 
hardly  expect  his  heroine's  own  musical  clearness.  Then 
as  the  girl  spoke  again  something  stirred  among  his  more  re- 
cent memories.  The  voice  was  still  hoarse,  but  he  placed 
it  now.  He  approached  the  brazier.  It  was  undoubt- 
edly the  Montague  girl.  She  recognized  him,  even  as  she 
squeezed  water  from  the  hair  of  wondrous  gold. 

"Hello,  again,  Kid.  You're  everywhere,  ain't  you? 
Say,  wha'd  you  think  of  that  Rosenblatt  man?  Swore  he'd 
put  the  steam  into  that  water  and  take  off  the  chill.  And  he 
never."  She  threw  aside  the  blanket  and  squeezed  water 
from  her  garments,  then  began  to  slap  her  legs,  arms,  and 
chest. 

"Well,  I'm  getting  a  gentle  glow,  anyhow.  Wha'd  you 
think  of  the  scene?" 

"It  was  good — very  well  done,  indeed."  He  hoped  it 
didn't  sound  patronizing,  though  that  was  how  he  felt.  He 
believed  now  that  Miss  Baxter  would  have  done  it  much 
better.  He  ventured  a  question.  "But  how  about  Miss 
Baxter — when  does  she  do  something?  Is  she  going  to  be 
swept  off  the  boat,  too?" 

"Baxter?    Into  that  water?    Quit  your  kidding!" 


174  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"But  isn't  she  here  at  all — won't  she  do  anything  here?'r 

"Listen  here,  Kid;  why  should  she  loaf  around  on  the  set 
when  she's  paying  me  good  money  to  double  for  her?" 

"You — double  for  Beulah  Baxter?"  It  was  some  more 
of  the  girl's  nonsense,  and  a  blasphemy  for  which  he  could 
not  easily  forgive  her. 

"Why  not?  Ain't  I  a  good  stunt  actress?  I'll  tell  the 
lot  she  hasn't  found  any  one  yet  that  can  get  away  with  her 
stuff  better  than  what  I  do." 

"But  she — I  heard  her  say  herself  she  never  allowed  any 
one  to  double  for  her — she  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing." 

Here  sounded  a  scornful  laugh  from  Jimmie,  the  prop- 
boy.  "Bunk!"  said  he  at  the  laugh's  end.  "How  long  you 
been  doublin'  for  her,  Miss  Montague?  Two  years,  ain't 
it? — I  know  it  was  before  I  come  here,  and  I  been  on  the  lot 
a  year  and  a  half.  Say,  he  ought  to  see  some  the  stuff  you 
done  for  her  out  on  location,  like  jumpin'  into  the  locomotive 
engine  from  your  auto  and  catchin'  the  brake  beams  when 
the  train's  movin',  and  goin'  across  that  quarry  on  the  cable, 
and  ridin'  down  that  lumber  flume  sixty  miles  per  hour  and 
ridin'  some  them  outlaw  buckjumpers — he'd  ought  to  seen 
some  that  stuff,  hey,  Miss  Montague?" 

"That's  right,  Jimmie,  you  tell  him  all  about  me.  I  hate 
to  talk  of  myself."  Very  wonderfully  Merton  Gill  divined 
that  this  was  said  with  a  humorous  intention.  Jimmy  was 
less  sensitive  to  values.  He  began  to  obey. 

"Well,  I  dunno — there's  that  motorcycle  stuff.  Purty 
good,  I'll  say.  I  wouldn't  try  that,  no,  sir,  not  for  a  cool 
million  dollars.  And  that  chase  stuff  on  the  roofs  down  town 
where  you  jumped  across  that  court  that  wasn't  any  too 
darned  narrow,  an'  say,  I  wisht  I  could  skin  up  a  tree 
the  way  you  can.  An'  there  was  that  tune " 

"All  right,  all  right,  Jimmie.  I  can  tell  him  the  rest  some- 
time. I  don't  really  hate  to  talk  about  myself — that's  on 
the  level.  And  say,  listen  here,  Jimmie,  you're  my  favourite 
sweetheart,  ain't  you?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  assented  Jimmie,  warmly. 


OF  SHATTERED  ILLUSIONS  175 

"All  right.  Beat  it  up  and  get  me  about  two  quarts  of  that 
hot  coffee  and  about  four  ham  sandwiches,  two  for  you  and 
two  for  me.  That's  a  good  kid." 

"Sure!"  exclaimed  Jimmie,  and  was  off. 

Merton  Gill  had  been  dazed  by  these  revelations,  by  the 
swift  and  utter  destruction  of  his  loftiest  ideal.  He  hardly 
cared  to  know,  now,  if  Beulah  Baxter  were  married.  It  was 
the  Montague  girl  who  had  most  thrilled  him  for  two  years. 
Yet,  almost  as  if  from  habit,  he  heard  himself  asking,  "Is — 
do  you  happen  to  know  if  Beulah  Baxter  is  married?" 

"Baxter  married?  Sure!  I  should  think  you'd  know  it 
from  the  way  that  Sig  Rosenblatt  bawls  everybody  out." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Who  is  he?  Why,  he's  her  husband,  of  course — he's 
Mr.  Beulah  Baxter." 

"That  little  director  up  on  the  platform  that  yells  so?" 
This  unspeakable  person  to  be  actually  the  husband  of  the 
wonder-woman,  the  man  he  had  supposed  she  must  find  in- 
tolerable even  as  a  director.  It  was  unthinkable,  more 
horrible,  somehow,  than  her  employment  of  a  double.  In 
time  he  might  have  forgiven  that — but  this! 

"Sure,  that's  her  honest-to-God  husband.  And  he's  the 
best  one  out  of  three  that  I  know  she's  had.  Sig's  a  good 
scout  even  if  he  don't  look  like  Buffalo  Bill.  In  fact,  he's 
all  right  in  spite  of  his  rough  ways.  He'd  go  farther  for  you 
than  most  of  the  men  on  this  lot.  If  I  wanted  a  favour  I'd 
go  to  Sig  before  a  lot  of  Christians  I  happen  to  know.  And 
he's  a  bully  director  if  he  is  noisy.  Baxter's  crazy  about  him, 
too.  Don't  make  any  mistake  there." 

"I  won't,"  he  answered,  not  knowing  what  he  said. 

She  shot  him  a  new  look.  "Say,  Kid,  as  long  as  we're 
talking,  you  seem  kind  of  up  against  it.  Where's  your  over- 
coat a  night  like  this,  and  when  did  you  last " 

"Miss  Montague!  Miss  Montague!"  The  director  was 
calling. 

"Excuse  me,"  she  said.  "I  got  to  go  entertain  the  white 
folks  a^ain." 


176  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

She  tucked  up  the  folds  of  her  blanket  and  sped  around 
the  pool  to  disappear  in  the  mazes  of  the  scaffolding.  He 
remained  a  moment  staring  dully  into  the  now  quiet  water. 
Then  he  walked  swiftly  away. 

Beulah  Baxter, his  wonder- woman,  had  deceived  her  public 
in  Peoria,  Illinois,  by  word  of  mouth.  She  employed  a  dou- 
ble at  critical  junctures.  "She'd  be  a  fool  not  to,"  the  Mon- 
tague girl  had  said.  And  in  private  life,  having  been  un- 
happily wed  twice  before,  she  was  Mrs.  Sigmund  Rosenblatt. 
And  crazy  about  her  husband! 

A  little  while  ago  he  had  felt  glad  he  was  not  to  die  of 
starvation  before  seeing  his  wonder-woman.  Reeling  under 
the  first  shock  of  his  discoveries  he  was  now  sorry.  Beulah 
Baxter  was  no  longer  his  wonder-woman.  She  was  Mr. 
Rosenblatt's.  He  would  have  preferred  death,  he  thought, 
before  this  heart-withering  revelation. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  MONTAGUE  GIRL  INTERVENES 

HE  CAME  to  life  the  next  morning,  shivering  under 
his  blankets.  It  must  be  cold  outside.  He  glanced 
at  his  watch  and  reached  for  another  blanket,  throw- 
ing it  over  himself  and  tucking  it  in  at  the  foot.  Then  he  lay 
down  again  to  screen  a  tense  bit  of  action  that  had  occurred 
late  the  night  before.  He  had  plunged  through  the  streets 
for  an  hour,  after  leaving  the  pool,  striving  to  recover  from 
the  twin  shocks  he  had  suffered.  Then,  returning  to  his 
hotel,  he  became  aware  that  The  Hazards  of  Hortense  were 
still  on.  He  could  hear  the  roar  o£  the  aeroplane  propeller 
and  see  the  lights  over  the  low  buildings  that  lined  his  street. 

Miserably  he  was  drawn  back  to  the  spot  where  the  most 
important  of  all  his  visions  had  been  rent  to  tatters.  He 
went  to  the  end  of  the  pool  where  he  had  stood  before.  Mr. 
Rosenblatt — hardly  could  he  bring  his  mind  to  utter  the 
hideous  syllables — was  still  dissatisfied  with  the  sea's  might. 
He  wanted  bigger  billows  and  meant  to  have  them  if  the 
company  stayed  on  the  set  all  night.  He  was  saying  as  much 
with  peevish  inflections.  Merton  stood  warming  himself  over 
the  fire  that  still  glowed  in  the  brazier. 

To  him  from  somewhere  beyond  the  scaffold  came  now  the 
Montague  girl  and  Jimmie.  The  girl  was  in  her  blanket,  and 
Jimmie  bore  a  pitcher,  two  tin  cups,  and  a  package  of  sand- 
wiches. They  came  to  the  fire  and  Jimmie  poured  coffee  for 
the  girl.  He  produced  sugar  from  a  pocket. 

"Help  yourself,  James,"  said  the  girl,  and  Jimmie  poured 
coffee  for  himself.  They  ate  sandwiches  as  they  drank. 
Merton  drew  a  little  back  from  the  fire.  The  scent  of  the 

177 


178  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

hot  coffee  threatened  to  make  him  forget  he  was  not  only  a 
successful  screen  actor  but  a  gentleman. 

"Did  you  have  to  do  it  again?"  he  asked. 

"I  had  to  do  it  twice  again,"  said  the  girl  from  over  her 
tin  cup.  "They're  developing  the  strips  now,  then  they'll 
run  them  in  the  projection  room,  and  they  won't  suit  Sig  one 
little  bit,  and  I'll  have  to  do  it  some  more.  I'll  be  swimming 
here  till  daylight  doth  appear." 

She  now  shot  that  familiar  glance  of  appraisal  at  Merton. 
"Have  a  sandwich  and  some  coffee,  Kid — give  him  your  cup, 
Jimmie." 

It  was  Merton  Gill's  great  moment,  a  heart -gripping 
climax  to  a  two-days'  drama  that  had  at  no  time  lacked 
tension.  Superbly  he  arose  to  it.  Consecrated  to  his  art, 
Clifford  Armytage  gave  the  public  something  better  and 
finer.  He  drew  himself  up  and  spoke  lightly,  clearly,  with 
careless  ease : 

" No,  thanks — I  couldn't  eat  a  mouthful."  The  smile  with 
which  he  accompanied  the  simple  words  might  be  enigmatic, 
it  might  hint  of  secret  sorrows,  but  it  was  plain  enough  that 
these  could  not  ever  so  distantly  relate  to  a  need  for  food. 

Having  achieved  this  sensational  triumph,  with  all  the 
quietness  of  method  that  should  distinguish  the  true  artist,  he 
became  seized  with  stage  fright  amounting  almost  to  panic. 
He  was  moved  to  snatch  the  sandwich  that  Jimmie  now 
proffered,  the  cup  that  he  had  refilled  with  coffee.  Yet  there 
was  but  a  moment  of  confusion.  Again  he  wielded  an  iron 
restraint.  But  he  must  leave  the  stage.  He  could  not  tarry 
there  after  his  big  scene,  especially  under  that  piercing  glance 
of  the  girl.  Somehow  there  was  incredulity  in  it. 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  have  to  be  going,"  he  remarked  jauntily, 
and  turned  for  his  exit. 

"Say,  Kid."  The  girl  halted  him  a  dozen  feet  away. 
"Say,  listen  here.  This  is  on  the  level.  I  want  to  have  a 
talk  with  you  to-morrow.  You'll  be  on  the  lot,  won't  you?  " 

He  seemed  to  debate  this  momentarily,  then  replied,  "Oh, 
yes,  I'll  be  around  here  somewhere." 


THE  MONTAGUE  GIRL  INTERVENES       179 

"Well,  remember,  now.  If  I  don't  run  into  you,  you  come 
down  to  that  set  where  I  was  working  to-day.  See?  I  got 
something  to  say  to  you." 

"All  right.  I'll  probably  see  you  sometime  during  the 
day." 

He  had  gone  on  to  his  hotel.  But  he  had  no  intention  of 
seeing  the  Montague  girl  on  the  morrow,  nor  of  being  seen  by 
her.  He  would  keep  out  of  that  girl's  way  whatever  else  he 
did.  She  would  ask  him  if  everything  was  jake,  and  where 
was  his  overcoat,  and  a  lot  of  silly  questions  about  matters 
that  should  not  concern  her. 

He  was  in  two  minds  about  the  girl  now.  Beneath  an  un- 
reasonable but  very  genuine  resentment  that  she  should  have 
doubled  for  Beulah  Baxter — as  if  she  had  basely  cheated  him 
of  his  most  cherished  ideal — there  ran  an  undercurrent  of 
reluctant  but  very  profound  admiration  for  her  prowess. 
She  had  done  some  thrilling  things  and  seemed  to  make  noth- 
ing of  it.  Through  this  admiration  there  ran  also  a  thread  of 
hostility  because  he,  himself,  would  undoubtedly  be  afraid  to 
attempt  her  lightest  exploit.  Not  even  the  trifling  feat  he  had 
just  witnessed,  for  he  had  never  learned  to  swim.  But  he 
clearly  knew,  despite  this  confusion,  that  he  was  through 
with  the  girl.  He  must  take  more  pains  to  avoid  her.  If 
met  by  chance,  she  must  be  snubbed — up-staged,  as  she  would 
put  it. 

Under  his  blankets  now,  after  many  appealing  close-ups 
of  the  sandwich  which  Jimmie  had  held  out  to  him,  he  felt 
almost  sorry  that  he  had  not  taken  the  girl's  food.  All  his 
being,  save  that  part  consecrated  to  his  art,  had  cried  out  for 
it.  Art  had  triumphed,  and  now  he  was  near  to  regretting 
that  it  had  not  been  beaten  down.  No  good  thinking  about 
it,  though. 

He  reached  again  for  his  watch.  It  was  seven-thirty  and 
time  to  be  abroad.  Once  more  he  folded  his  blankets  and 
placed  them  on  the  pile,  keeping  an  alert  glance,  the  while,  for 
another  possible  bit  of  the  delicious  bread.  He  found  noth- 
ing of  this  sort.  The  Crystal  Palace  Hotel  was  bare  of 


180  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

provender.  Achieving  a  discreet  retirement  from  the 
hostelry  he  stood  irresolute  in  the  street.  This  morning 
there  was  no  genial  sun  to  warm  him.  A  high  fog  overcast 
the  sky,  and  the  air  was  chill.  At  intervals  he  shivered 
violently.  For  no  reason,  except  that  he  had  there  last  be- 
held actual  food,  he  went  back  to  the  pool. 

Evidently  Mr.  Rosenblatt  had  finally  been  appeased.  The 
place  was  deserted  and  lay  bare  and  ugly  in  the  dull  light. 
The  gallant  ship  of  the  night  before  was  seen  to  be  a  poor, 
flimsy  make-shift.  No  wonder  Mr.  Rosenblatt  had  wished 
billows  to  engulf  it  and  mist  to  shroud  it.  He  sat  on  a  beam 
lying  at  the  ship  end  of  the  pool  and  stared  moodily  at  the 
pitiful  make-believe. 

He  rounded  his  shoulders  and  pulled  up  the  collar  of  his 
coat.  He  knew  he  should  be  walking,  but  doubted  his 
strength.  The  little  walk  to  the  pool  had  made  him  strangely 
breathless.  He  wondered  how  long  people  were  in  starving 
to  death.  He  had  read  of  fasters  who  went  for  weeks  without 
food,  but  he  knew  he  was  not  of  this  class.  He  lacked  talent 
for  it.  Doubtless  another  day  would  finish  him.  He  had 
no  heart  now  for  visions  of  the  Gashwiler  table.  He  de- 
scended tragically  to  recalling  that  last  meal  at  the  drug 
store — the  bowl  of  soup  with  its  gracious  burden  of  rich, 
nourishing  catsup. 

He  began  to  alter  the  scenario  of  his  own  life.  Suppose 
he  had  worked  two  more  weeks  for  Gashwiler.  That  would 
have  given  him  thirty  dollars.  Suppose  he  had  worked  a 
month.  He  could  have  existed  a  long  time  on  sixty  dollars. 
Suppose  he  had  even  stuck  it  out  for  one  week  more — fifteen 
dollars  at  this  moment!  He  began  to  see  a  breakfast,  the 
sort  of  meal  to  be  ordered  by  a  hungry  man  with  fifteen 
dollars  to  squander. 

The  shivering  seized  him  again  and  he  heard  his  teeth 
rattle.  He  must  move  from  this  spot,  forever  now  to  be 
associated  with  black  disillusion.  He  arose  from  his  seat 
and  was  dismayed  to  hear  a  hail  from  the  Montague  girl. 
Was  he  never  to  be  free  from  her? 


THE  MONTAGUE  GIRL  INTERVENES       181 

She  was  poised  at  a  little  distance,  one  hand  raised  to  him, 
no  longer  the  drenched  victim  of  a  capricious  Rosenblatt,  but 
the  beaming,  joyous  figure  of  one  who  had  triumphed  over 
wind  and  wave.  He  went  almost  sullenly  to  her  while  she 
waited.  No  good  trying  to  escape  her  for  a  minute  or 
so. 

"Hello,  old  Trouper!  You're  just  in  time  to  help  me  hunt 
for  something."  She  was  in  the  familiar  street  suit  now,  a 
skirt  and  jacket  of  some  rough  brown  goods  and  a  cloth  hat 
that  kept  close  to  her  small  head  above  hair  that  seemed  of  no 
known  shade  whatever,  though  it  was  lighter  than  dark.  She 
flashed  a  smile  at  him  from  her  broad  mouth  as  he  came  up, 
though  her  knowing  gray  eyes  did  not  join  in  this  smile.  He 
knew  instantly  that  she  was  taking  him  in. 

This  girl  was  wise  beyond  her  years,  he  thought,  but  one 
even  far  less  knowing  could  hardly  have  been  in  two  minds 
about  his  present  abject  condition.  The  pushed-up  collar 
of  his  coat  did  not  entirely  hide  the  once- white  collar  beneath 
it,  the  beard  had  reached  its  perhaps  most  distressing  stage  of 
development,  and  the  suit  was  rumpled  out  of  all  the  natti- 
ness  for  which  it  had  been  advertised.  Even  the  plush  hat 
had  lost  its  smart  air. 

Then  he  plainly  saw  that  the  girl  would,  for  the  moment 
at  least,  ignore  these  phenomena.  She  laughed  again,  and 
this  time  the  eyes  laughed,  too.  "C'mon  over  and  help  me 
hunt  for  that  bar  pin  I  lost.  It  must  be  at  this  end,  because 
I  know  I  had  it  on  when  I  went  into  the  drink.  Maybe  it's 
in  the  pool,  but  maybe  I  lost  it  after  I  got  out.  It's  one  of 
Baxter's  that  she  wore  in  the  scene  just  ahead  of  last  night, 

and  she'll  have  to  have  it  again  to-day.  Now "  She 

began  to  search  the  ground  around  the  cold  brazier.  "It 
might  be  along  here."  He  helped  her  look.  Pretty  soon  he 
would  remember  an  engagement  and  get  away.  The  search 
at  the  end  of  the  pool  proved  fruitless.  The  girl  continued 
to  chatter.  They  had  worked  until  one-thirty  before  that 
grouch  of  a  Rosenblatt  would  call  it  a  day.  At  that  she'd 
rather  do  water  stuff  than  animal  stuff — especially  lions. 


182  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"Lions?  I  should  think  so!"  He  replied  to  this.  "Danger- 
ous, isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  it  ain't  that.  They're  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  if  you 
know  'em,  but  they're  so  hot  and  smelly  when  you  have  to 
get  close  to  'em.  Anything  I  really  hate,  it's  having  to  get 
up  against  a  big,  hot,  hairy,  smelly  lion." 

He  murmured  a  sympathetic  phrase  and  extended  his 
search  for  the  lost  pin  to  the  side  of  the  pool.  Almost  undei 
the  scaffold  he  saw  the  shine  of  precious  stones  and  called  ta 
her  as  he  picked  up  the  pin,  a  bar  pin  splendidly  set  with 
diamonds.  He  was  glad  that  he  had  found  it  for  her.  It 
must  have  cost  a  great  deal  of  money  and  she  would  doubtless 
be  held  responsible  for  its  safe-keeping. 

She  came  dancing  to  him.  "Say,  that's  fine — your  eyes 
are  working,  ain't  they?  I  might  'a'  been  set  back  a  good  six 
dollars  if  you  hadn't  found  that."  She  took  the  bauble  and 
fastened  it  inside  her  jacket.  So  the  pin,  too,  had  been  a 
tawdry  makeshift.  Nothing  was  real  any  more.  As  she 
adjusted  the  pin  he  saw  his  moment  for  escape.  With  a 
gallant  striving  for  the  true  Clifford  Armytage  manner  he 
raised  the  plush  hat. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  found  Mrs.  Rosenblatt's  pin — and  I 
guess  I'll  be  getting  on." 

The  manner  must  have  been  defective.  She  looked  through 
him  and  said  with  great  firmness,  "Nothing  like  that,  old 
pippin."  Again  he  was  taken  with  a  violent  fit  of  shivering* 
He  could  not  meet  her  eyes.  He  was  turning  away  whefc 
she  seized  him  by  the  wrist.  Her  grip  was  amazingly  force^ 
ful.  He  doubted  if  he  could  break  away  even  with  his 
stoutest  effort.  He  stood  miserably  staring  at  the  ground. 
Suddenly  the  girl  reached  up  to  pat  his  shoulder.  He 
shivered  again  and  she  continued  to  pat  it.  When  his  teeth 
had  ceased  to  be  castanets  she  spoke : 

"Listen  here,  old  Kid,  you  can't  fool  any  one,  so  quit 
trying.  Don't  you  s'pose  I've  seen  'em  like  you  before? 
Say,  boy,  I  was  trouping  while  you  played  with  marbles. 
You're  up  against  it.  Now,  c'mon" —  with  the  arm  at  his 


THE  MONTAGUE  GIRL  INTERVENES       183 

shoulder  she  pulled  him  about  to  face  her — "c'mon  and  be 
nice — tell  mother  all  about  it." 

The  late  Clifford  Armytage  was  momentarily  menaced  by 
a  complete  emotional  overthrow.  Another  paroxysm  of 
shivering  perhaps  averted  this  humiliation.  The  girl  dropped 
his  wrist,  turned,  stooped,  and  did  something.  He  recalled 
the  scene  in  the  gambling  hell,  only  this  time  she  fronted 
away  from  the  camera.  When  she  faced  him  again  he  was  not 
surprised  to  see  bills  in  her  hand.  It  could  only  have  been 
the  chill  he  suffered  that  kept  him  from  blushing.  She  forced 
the  bills  into  his  numb  fingers  and  he  stared  at  them  blankly. 

"I  can't  take  these,"  he  muttered. 

"There,  now,  there,  now!  Be  easy.  Naturally  I  know 
you're  all  right  or  I  wouldn't  give  up  this  way.  You're  just 
having  a  run  of  hard  luck.  The  Lord  knows,  I've  been  helped 
out  often  enough  in  my  time.  Say,  listen,  I'll  never  forget 
when  I  went  out  as  a  kid  with  Her  First  False  Step — they  had 
lions  in  that  show.  It  was  a  frost  from  the  start.  No 
salaries,  no  nothing.  I  got  a  big  laugh  one  day  when  I  was 
late  at  rehearsal.  The  manager  says:  'You're  fined  two 
dollars,  Miss  Montague.'  I  says,  'All  right,  Mr.  Gratz,  but 
you'll  have  to  wait  till  I  can  write  home  for  the  money.' 
Even  Gratz  had  to  laugh.  Anyway,  the  show  went  bust  and 
I  never  would  'a'  got  any  place  if  two  or  three  partieshadn't  of 
helped  me  out  here  and  there,  just  the  same  as  I'm  doing  with 
you  this  minute.  So  don't  be  foolish." 

"Well— you  see— I  don't "  He  broke  off  from  ner- 
vous weakness.  In  his  mind  was  a  jumble  of  incongruous 
sentences  and  he  seemed  unable  to  manage  any  of  them. 

The  girl  now  sent  a  clean  shot  through  his  armour. 
"When'd  you  eat  last?" 

He  looked  at  the  ground  again  in  painful  embarrassment. 
Even  in  the  chill  air  he  was  beginning  to  feel  hot.  "I  don't 
remember,"  he  said  at  last  quite  honestly. 

"That's  what  I  thought.  You  go  eat.  Go  to  Mother 
Haggin's,  that  cafeteria  just  outside  the  gate.  She  has  better 
breakfast  things  than  the  place  on  the  lot." 


184  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

Against  his  will  the  vision  of  a  breakfast  enthralled  him, 
yet  even  under  this  exaltation  an  instinct  of  the  wariest 
caution  survived. 

"I'll  go  to  the  one  on  the  lot,  I  guess.  If  I  went  out  to 
the  other  one  I  couldn't  get  in  again." 

She  smiled  suddenly,  with  puzzling  lights  in  her  eyes. 
"  Well,  of  all  things !  You  want  to  get  in  again,  do  you?  Say, 
wouldn't  that  beat  the  hot  place  a  mile?  You  want  to  get  in 
again?  All  right,  Old-timer,  I'll  go  out  with  you  and  after 
you've  fed  I'll  cue  you  on  to  the  lot  again." 

"Well — if  it  ain't  taking  you  out  of  your  way."  He  knew 
that  the  girl  was  somehow  humouring  him,  as  if  he  were  a 
sick  child.  She  knew,  and  he  knew,  that  the  lot  was  no 
longer  any  place  for  him  until  he  could  be  rightly  there. 

"No,  c'mon,  I'll  stay  by  you."  They  walked  up  the  street 
of  the  Western  village.  The  girl  had  started  at  a  brisk  pace 
and  he  was  presently  breathless. 

"I  guess  I'll  have  to  rest  a  minute,"  he  said.  They  were 
now  before  the  Crystal  Palace  Hotel  and  he  sat  on  the  steps. 

"All  in,  are  you?    Well,  take  it  easy." 

He  was  not  only  all  in,  but  his  mind  still  played  with  in- 
congruous sentences.  He  heard  himself  saying  things  that 
must  sound  foolish. 

"I've  slept  in  here  a  lot,"  he  volunteered.  The  girl  went 
to  look  through  one  of  the  windows. 

"Blankets!"  she  exclaimed.  "Well,  you  got  the  makings 
of  a  trouper  in  you,  I'll  say  that.  Where  else  did  you  sleep?  " 

"Well,  there  were  two  miners  had  a  nice  cabin  down  the 
street  here  with  bunks  and  blankets,  and  they  had  a  fight, 
and  half  a  kettle  of  beans  and  some  bread,  and  one  of  them 
shaved  and  I  used  his  razor,  but  I  haven't  shaved  since  be- 
cause I  only  had  twenty  cents  day  before  yesterday,  and  any- 
way they  might  think  I  was  growing  them  for  a  part,  the  way 
your  father  did,  but  I  moved  up  here  when  I  saw  them  put 
the  blankets  in,  and  I  was  careful  and  put  them  back  every 
morning.  I  didn't  do  any  harm,  do  you  think?  And  I  got 
the  rest  of  the  beans  they'd  thrown  into  the  fireplace,  and  if 


.    THE  MONTAGUE  GIRL  INTERVENES       185 

I'd  only  known  it  I  could  have  brought  my  razor  and  over- 
coat and  some  clean  collars,  but  somehow  you  never  seem  to 
know  when " 

He  broke  off,  eyeing  her  vaguely.  He  had  little  notion 
what  he  had  been  saying  or  what  he  would  say  next. 

"This  is  going  to  be  good,"  said  the  Montague  girl.  "I 
can  see  that  from  here.  But  now  you  c'mon — we'll  walk 
slow — and  you  tell  me  the  rest  when  you've  had  a  little 
snack." 

She  even  helped  him  to  rise,  with  a  hand  under  his  elbow, 
though  he  was  quick  to  show  her  that  he  had  not  needed  this 
help.  "I  can  walk  all  right/'  he  assured  her. 

"Of  course  you  can.  You're  as  strong  as  a  horse.  But 
we  needn't  go  too  fast."  She  took  his  arm  in  a  friendly  way  as 
they  completed  the  journey  to  the  outside  cafeteria. 

At  this  early  hour  they  were  the  only  patrons  of  the  place. 
Miss  Montague,  a  little  with  the  air  of  a  solicitous  nurse, 
seated  her  charge  at  a  corner  table  and  took  the  place  oppo- 
site him. 

"What's  it  going  to  be?"  she  demanded. 

Visions  of  rich  food  raced  madly  through  his  awakened 
mind,  wide  platters  heaped  with  sausage  and  steaks  and  ham 
and  corned-beef  hash. 

"Steak,"  he  ventured,  "and  something  like  ham  and  eggs 

and  some  hot  cakes  and  coffee  and "  He  broke  off.  He 

was  becoming  too  emotional  under  this  golden  spread  of 
opportunity.  The  girl  glanced  up  from  the  bill  of  fare  and 
appraised  the  wild  light  in  his  eyes. 

"One  minute,  Kid — let's  be  more  restful  at  first.  You 
know — kind  of  ease  into  the  heavy  eats.  It'll  prob'ly  be 
better  for  you." 

"Anything  you  say,"  he  conceded.  Her  words  of  caution 
had  stricken  him  with  a  fear  that  this  was  a  dream;  that  he 
would  wake  up  under  blankets  back  in  the  Crystal  Palace. 
It  was  like  that  in  dreams.  You  seemed  able  to  order  all  sorts 
of  food,  but  something  happened;  it  never  reached  the  table. 
He  would  take  no  further  initiative  in  this  scene,  whether 


186  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

dream  or  reality.     "You  order  something,"  he  concluded. 
His  eyes  trustfully  sought  the  girl's. 

"Well,  I  think  you'll  start  with  one  orange,  just  to  kind  of 
hint  to  the  old  works  that  something  good  is  coming.  Then 
— lemme  see" — she  considered  gravely.  "Then  I  guess 
about  two  soft-boiled  eggs — no,  you  can  stand  three — and 
some  dry  toast  and  some  coffee.  Maybe  a  few  thin  strips 
of  bacon  wouldn't  hurt.  We'll  see  can  you  make  the  grade." 
She  turned  to  give  the  order  to  a  waitress.  "And  shoot 
the  coffee  along,  sister.  A  cup  for  me,  too." 

Her  charge  shivered  again  at  the  mere  mention  of  coffee. 
The  juncture  was  critical.  He  might  still  be  dreaming,  but 
in  another  moment  he  must  know.  He  closely,  even  coolly, 
watched  the  two  cups  of  coffee  that  were  placed  before  them. 
He  put  a  benumbed  hand  around  the  cup  in  front  of  him  and 
felt  it  burn.  It  was  too  active  a  sensation  for  mere  dreaming. 
He  put  sugar  into  the  cup  and  poured  in  the  cream  from  a 
miniature  pitcher,  inhaling  a  very  real  aroma.  Events  thus 
far  seemed  normal.  He  stirred  the  coffee  and  started  to 
raise  the  cup.  Now,  after  all,  it  seemed  to  be  a  dream.  His 
hand  shook  so  that  the  stuff  spilled  into  the  saucer  and  even 
out  on  to  the  table.  Always  in  dreams  you  were  thwarted 
at  the  last  moment. 

The  Montague  girl  had  noted  the  trembling  and  ineffec- 
tive hand.  She  turned  her  back  upon  him  to  chat  with  the 
waitress  over  by  the  food  counter.  With  no  eye  upon  him, 
he  put  both  hands  about  the  cup  and  succeeded  in  raising 
it  to  his  lips.  The  hands  were  still  shaky,  but  he  managed 
some  sips  of  the  stuff,  and  then  a  long  draught  that  seemed 
to  scald  him.  He  wasn't  sure  if  it  scalded  or  not.  It  was 
pretty  hot,  and  fire  ran  through  him.  He  drained  the  cup — 
still  holding  it  with  both  hands.  It  was  an  amazing  sensa- 
tion to  have  one's  hand  refuse  to  obey  so  simple  an  order. 
Maybe  he  would  always  be  that  way  now,  practically  a 
cripple. 

The  girl  turned  back  to  him.  "Atta  boy,"  she  said. 
"Now  take  the  orange.  And  when  the  toast  comes  you  can 


THE  MONTAGUE  GIRL  INTERVENES       187 

have  some  more  coffee."  A  dread  load  was  off  his  mind. 
He  did  not  dream  this  thing.  He  ate  the  orange,  and  ate 
wonderful  toast  to  the  accompaniment  of  another  cup  of 
coffee.  The  latter  half  of  this  he  managed  with  but  one 
hand,  though  it  was  not  yet  wholly  under  control.  The 
three  eggs  seemed  like  but  one.  He  thought  they  must 
have  been  small  eggs.  More  toast  was  commanded  and 
more  coffee. 

"Easy,  easy!"  cautioned  his  watchful  hostess  from  time 
to  time.  "Don't  wolf  it — you'll  feel  better  afterwards." 

"I  feel  better  already,"    he  announced. 

"Well,"  the  girl  eyed  him  critically,  "you  certainly  got 
the  main  chandelier  lighted  up  once  more." 

A  strange  exhilaration  flooded  all  his  being.  His  own 
thoughts  babbled  to  him,  and  he  presently  began  to  babble 
to  his  new  friend. 

"You  remind  me  so  much  of  Tessie  Kearns,"  he  said  as  he 
scraped  the  sides  of  the  egg  cup. 

"Who's  she?" 

"Oh,  she's  a  scenario  writer  I  know.  You're  just  like 
her."  He  was  now  drunk — maudlin  drunk — from  the  coffee. 
Sober,  he  would  have  known  that  no  human  beings  could  be 
less  alike  than  Tessie  Kearns  and  the  Montague  girl.  Other 
walls  of  his  reserve  went  down. 

"Of  course  I  could  have  written  to  Gashwiler  and  got 
some  money  to  go  back  there " 

"Gashwiler,  Gashwiler?"  The  girl  seemed  to  search  her 
memory.  "I  thought  I  knew  all  the  tank  towns,  but  that's 
a  new  one.  Where  is  it?" 

"It  isn't  a  town;  it's  a  gentleman  I  had  a  position  with, 
and  h<*  said  he'd  keep  it  open  for  me."  He  flew  to  another 
thought  with  the  inconsequence  of  the  drunken.  "Say, 
Kid" —  He  had  even  caught  that  form  of  address  from 
her — "I'll  tell  you.  You  can  keep  this  watch  of  mine 
till  I  pay  you  back  this  money."  He  drew  it  out.  "It's  a 
good  solid-gold  watch  and  everything.  My  uncle  Sylvester 
gave  it  to  me  for  not  smoking,  on  my  eighteenth  birthday. 


188  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

He  smoked,  himself;  he  even  drank  considerable.  He  was 
his  own  worst  enemy.  But  you  can  see  it's  a  good  solid- 
gold  watch  and  keeps  time,  and  you  hold  it  till  I  pay  you 
back,  will  you?" 

The  girl  took  the  watch,  examining  it  carefully,  noting 
the  inscription  engraved  on  the  case.  There  were  puzzling 
glints  in  her  eyes  as  she  handed  it  back  to  him.  "No;  I'll 
tell  you,  it'll  be  my  watch  until  you  pay  me  back,  but  you 
keep  it  for  me.  I  haven't  any  place  to  carry  it  except  the 
pocket  of  my  jacket,  and  I  might  lose  it,  and  then  where'd 
we  be?" 

"Well,  all  right."  He  cheerfully  took  back  the  watch. 
His  present  ecstasy  would  find  him  agreeable  to  all  pro- 
posals. 

"And  say,"  continued  the  girl,  "what  about  this  Gashwel- 
ler,  or  whatever  his  name  is?  He  said  he'd  take  you  back, 
did  he?  A  farm?" 

"No,  an  emporium — and  you  forgot  his  name  just  the 
way  that  lady  in  the  casting  office  always  does.  She's  funny. 
Keeps  telling  me  not  to  forget  the  address,  when  of  course  I 
couldn't  forget  the  town  where  I  lived,  could  I?  Of  course 
it's  a  little  town,  but  you  wouldn't  forget  it  when  you  lived 
there  a  long  time — not  when  you  got  your  start  there." 

"So  you  got  your  start  in  this  town,  did  you?" 

He  wanted  to  talk  a  lot  now.  He  prattled  of  the  town 
and  his  life  there,  of  the  eight-hour  talent-tester  and  the 
course  in  movie-acting.  Of  Tessie  Kearns  and  her  scenarios, 
not  yet  prized  as  they  were  sure  to  be  later.  Of  Lowell 
Hardy,  the  artistic  photographer,  and  the  stills  that  he  had 
made  of  the  speaker  as  Clifford  Armytage.  Didn't  she  think 
that  was  a  better  stage  name  than  Merton  Gill,  which  didn't 
seem  to  sound  like  so  much?  Anyway,  he  wished  he  had 
his  stills  here  to  show  her.  Of  course  some  of  them  were  just 
in  society  parts,  the  sort  of  thing  that  Harold  Parmalee 
played — had  she  noticed  that  he  looked  a  good  deal  like 
Harold  Parmalee?  Lots  of  people  had. 

Tessie  Kearns  thought  he  was  the  dead  image  of  Parmalee. 


THE  MONTAGUE  GIRL  INTERVENES       189 

But  he  liked  Western  stuff  better — a  lot  better  than  cabaret 
stuff  where  you  had  to  smoke  one  cigarette  after  another — 
and  he  wished  she  could  see  the  stills  in  the  Buck  Benson 
outfit,  chaps  and  sombrero  and  spurs  and  holster.  He'd 
never  had  two  guns,  but  the  one  he  did  have  he  could  draw 
pretty  well.  There  would  be  his  hand  at  his  side,  and  in  a 
flash  he  would  have  the  gun  in  it,  ready  to  shoot  from  the 
hip.  And  roping — he'd  need  to  practise  that  some.  Once 
he  got  it  smack  over  Dexter's  head,  but  usually  it  didn't  go 
so  well. 

Probably  a  new  clothesline  didn't  make  the  best  rope — 
too  stiff.  He  could  probably  do  a  lot  better  with  one  of  those 
hair  ropes  that  the  real  cowboys  used.  And  Metta  Judson — 
she  was  the  best  cook  anywhere  around  Simsbury.  He 
mustn't  forget  to  write  to  Metta,  and  to  Tessie  Kearns,  to 
be  sure  and  see  The  Blight  of  Broadway  when  it  came  to  the 
Bijou  Palace.  They  would  be  surprised  to  see  those  close- 
ups  that  Henshaw  had  used  him  in.  And  he  was  in  that 
other  picture.  No  close  ups  in  that,  still  he  would  show 
pretty  well  in  the  cage-scene — he'd  had  to  smoke  a  few 
cigarettes  there,  because  Arabs  smoke  all  the  time,  and  he 
hadn't  been  in  the  later  scene  where  the  girl  and  the  young 
fellow  were  in  the  deserted  tomb  all  night  and  he  didn't  lay 
a  finger  on  her  because  he  was  a  perfect  gentleman. 

He  didn't  know  what  he  would  do  next.  Maybe  Henshaw 
would  want  him  in  Robinson  Crusoe,  Junior,  where  Friday's 
sister  turned  out  to  be  the  daughter  of  an  English  earl  with 
her  monogram  tattooed  on  her  left  shoulder.  He  would  ask 
Henshaw,  anyway. 

The  Montague  girl  listened  attentively  to  the  long,  wander- 
ing recital.  At  times  she  would  seem  to  be  strongly  moved, 
to  tears  or  something.  But  mostly  she  listened  with  a 
sympathetic  smile,  or  perhaps  with  a  perfectly  rigid  face, 
though  at  such  moments  there  would  be  those  curious  glints 
of  light  far  back  in  her  gray  eyes.  Occasionally  she  would 
prompt  him  with  a  question. 

In  this  way  she  brought  out  his  version  of  the  Sabbath 


190  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

afternoon  experience  with  Dexter.  He  spared  none  of  the 
details,  for  he  was  all  frankness  now.  He  even  told  how 
ashamed  he  had  felt  having  to  lead  Dexter  home  from  his 
scandalous  grazing  before  the  Methodist  Church.  He  had 
longed  to  leap  upon  the  horse  and  ride  him  back  at  a  gallop, 
but  he  had  been  unable  to  do  this  because  there  was  nothing 
from  which  to  climb  on  him,  and  probably  he  would  have 
been  afraid  to  gallop  the  beast,  anyway. 

This  had  been  one  of  the  bits  that  most  strangely  moved 
his  listener.  Her  eyes  were  moist  when  he  had  finished,  and 
some  strong  emotion  seemed  about  to  overpower  her,  but 
she  had  recovered  command  of  herself,  and  become  again 
the  sympathetic  provider  and  counsellor. 

He  would  have  continued  to  talk,  apparently,  for  the  in- 
fluence of  strong  drink  had  not  begun  to  wane,  but  the  girl 
at  length  stopped  him. 

"Listen  here,  Merton "  she  began;  her  voice  was 

choked  to  a  peculiar  hoarseness  and  she  seemed  to  be  threat- 
ened with  a  return  of  her  late  strong  emotion.  She  was 
plainly  uncertain  of  her  control,  fearing  to  trust  herself  to 
speech,  but  presently,  after  efforts  which  he  observed  with 
warmest  sympathy,  she  seemed  to  recover  her  poise.  She 
swallowed  earnestly  several  times,  wiped  her  moisture- 
dimmed  eyes  with  her  handkerchief,  and  continued,  "It's 
getting  late  and  I've  got  to  be  over  at  the  show  shop.  So 
I'll  tell  you  what  to  do  next.  You  go  out  and  get  a  shave 
and  a  haircut  and  then  go  home  and  get  cleaned  up — you 
said  you  had  a  room  and  other  clothes,  didn't  you?" 

Volubly  he  told  her  about  the  room  at  Mrs.  Patterson's, 
and,  with  a  brief  return  of  lucidity,  how  the  sum  of  ten  dol- 
lars was  now  due  this  heartless  society  woman  who  might 
insist  upon  its  payment  before  he  would  again  enjoy  free  ac- 
cess to  his  excellent  wardrobe. 

"Well,  lemme  see "  She  debated  a  moment,  then 

reached  under  the  table,  fumbled  obscurely,  and  came  up  with 
more  money.  "Now,  here,  here's  twenty  more  besides  that 
first  I  gave  you,  so  you  can  pay  the  dame  her  money  and 


THE  MONTAGUE  GIRL  INTERVENES       191 

get  all  fixed  up  again,  fresh  suit  and  clean  collar  and  a  shine 
and  everything.  No,  no — this  is  my  scene;  you  stay  out." 

He  had  waved  protestingly  at  sight  of  the  new  money, 
and  now  again  he  blushed. 

"That's  all  understood,"  she  continued.  "I'm  staking 
you  to  cakes  till  you  get  on  your  feet,  see?  And  I  know 
you're  honest,  so  I'm  not  throwing  my  money  away.  There 
— sink  it  and  forget  it.  Now,  you  go  out  and  do  what  I 
said,  the  barber  first.  And  lay  off  the  eats  until  about  noon. 
You  had  enough  for  now.  By  noon  you  can  stoke  up  with 
meat  and  potatoes — anything  you  want  that'll  stick  to  the 
merry  old  slats.  And  I'd  take  milk  instead  of  any  more 
coffee.  You've  thinned  down  some — you're  not  near  so 
plump  as  Harold  Parmalee.  Then  you  rest  up  for  the  bal- 
ance of  the  day,  and  you  show  here  to-morrow  morning  about 
this  time.  Do  you  get  it?  The  Countess'll  let  you  in. 
Tell  her  I  said  to,  and  come  over  to  the  office  building.  See?  " 

He  tried  to  tell  her  his  gratitude,  but  instead  he  babbled 
again  of  how  much  she  was  like  Tessie  Kearns.  They  parted 
at  the  gate. 

With  a  last  wondering  scrutiny  of  him,  a  last  reminder  of 
her  very  minute  directions,  she  suddenly  illumined  him  with 
rays  of  a  compassion  that  was  somehow  half  laughter. 
"You  poor,  feckless  dub!"  she  pronounced  as  she  turned 
from  him  to  dance  through  the  gate.  He  scarcely  heard 
the  words;  her  look  and  tone  had  been  so  warming. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  was  telling  a  barber  that  he  had  just 
finished  a  hard  week  on  the  Holden  lot,  and  that  he  was  glad 
to  get  the  brush  off  at  last.  From  the  barber's  he  hastened 
to  the  Patterson  house,  rather  dreading  the  encounter  with 
one  to  whom  he  owed  so  much  money.  He  found  the  house 
locked.  Probably  both  of  the  Pattersons  had  gone  out  into 
society.  He  let  himself  in  and  began  to  follow  the  directions 
of  the  Montague  girl.  The  bath,  clean  linen,  the  other 
belted  suit,  already  pressed,  the  other  shoes,  the  buttoned, 
cloth-topped  ones,  already  polished!  He  felt  now  more 
equal  to  the  encounter  with  a  heartless  society  woman.  But, 


192  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

as  she  did  not  return,  he  went  out  in  obedience  to  a  new 
hunger. 

In  the  most  sumptuous  cafeteria  he  knew  of,  one  patronized 
only  in  his  first  careless  days  of  opulence,  he  ate  for  a  long 
time.  Roast  beef  and  potatoes  he  ordered  twice,  nor  did  he 
forget  to  drink  the  milk  prescribed  by  his  benefactress. 
Plenty  of  milk  would  make  him  more  than  ever  resemble 
Harold  Parmalee.  And  he  commanded  an  abundance  of 
dessert:  lemon  pie  and  apple  pie  and  a  double  portion  of 
chocolate  cake  with  ice-cream.  His  craving  for  sweets  was 
still  unappeased,  so  at  a  near-by  drug  store  he  bought  a 
pound  box  of  candy. 

The  world  was  again  under  his  feet.  Restored  to  his  right- 
ful domain,  he  trod  it  with  lightness  and  certainty.  His 
mind  was  still  a  pleasant  jumble  of  money  and  food  and  the 
Montague  girl.  Miles  of  gorgeous  film  flickered  across  his 
vision.  An  experienced  alcoholic  would  have  told  him  that 
he  enjoyed  a  coffee  "hang-over."  He  wended  a  lordly  way 
to  the  nearest  motion-picture  theatre. 

Billed  there  was  the  tenth  installment  of  The  Hazards 
of  Hortense.  He  passed  before  the  lively  portrayal  in 
colours  of  Hortense  driving  a  motor  car  off  an  open  draw- 
bridge. The  car  was  already  halfway  between  the  bridge 
and  the  water  beneath.  He  sneered  openly  at  the  announce- 
ment: "Beulah  Baxter  in  the  Sensational  Surprise  Picture 
of  the  Century."  A  surprise  picture  indeed,  if  those  now 
entering  the  theatre  could  be  told  what  he  knew  about  it! 
He  considered  spreading  the  news,  but  decided  to  retain 
the  superiority  his  secret  knowledge  gave  him. 

Inside  the  theatre,  eating  diligently  from  his  box  of  candy, 
he  was  compelled  to  endure  another  of  the  unspeakable 
Buckeye  comedies.  The  cross-eyed  man  was  a  lifeguard 
at  a  beach  and  there  were  social  entanglements  involv- 
ing a  bearded  father,  his  daughter  in  an  inconsiderable 
bathing  suit,  a  confirmed  dipsomaniac,  two  social  derelicts 
who  had  to  live  by  their  wits,  and  a  dozen  young  girls  also 
arrayed  in  inconsiderable  bathing  suits.  He  <y*uld  scarcely 


THE  MONTAGUE  GIRL  INTERVENES       193 

follow  the  chain  of  events,  so  illogical  were  they,  and  indeed 
made  little  effort  to  do  so.  He  felt  far  above  the  audience 
that  cackled  at  these  dreadful  buffooneries.  One  subtitle 
read:  "I  hate  to  kill  him — murder  is  so  hard  to  explain." 

This  sort  of  thing,  he  felt  more  than  ever,  degraded  an  art 
where  earnest  people  were  suffering  and  sacrificing  in  order 
to  give  the  public  something  better  and  finer.  Had  he  not, 
himself,  that  very  day,  completed  a  perilous  ordeal  of  suffer- 
ing and  sacrifice?  And  he  was  asked  to  laugh  at  a  cross- 
eyed man  posing  before  a  camera  that  fell  to  pieces  when  the 
lens  was  exposed,  shattered,  presumably,  by  the  impact  of 
the  afflicted  creature's  image!  This,  surely,  was  not  art 
such  as  Clifford  Armytage  was  rapidly  fitting  himself,  by 
trial  and  hardship,  to  confer  upon  the  public. 

It  was  with  curiously  conflicting  emotions  that  he  watched 
the  ensuing  Hazards  of  Hortense.  He  had  to  remind  him- 
self that  the  slim  little  girl  with  the  wistful  eyes  was  not  only 
not  performing  certain  feats  of  daring  that  the  film  exposed, 
but  that  she  was  Mrs.  Sigmund  Rosenblatt  and  crazy  about 
her  husband.  Yet  the  magic  had  not  wholly  departed  from 
this  wronged  heroine.  He  thought  perhaps  this  might  be 
because  he  now  knew,  and  actually  liked,  that  talkative 
Montague  girl  who  would  be  doing  the  choice  bits  of  this 
drama.  Certainly  he  was  loyal  to  the  hand  that  fed  him. 

Black  Steve  and  his  base  crew,  hirelings  of  the  scoundrelly 
guardian  who  was  "a  Power  in  Wall  Street, "  again  and  again 
seemed  to  have  encompassed  the  ruin,  body  and  soul,  of  the 
persecuted  Hortense.  They  had  her  prisoner  in  a  foul  den 
of  Chinatown,  whence  she  escaped  to  balance  precariously 
upon  the  narrow  cornice  of  a  skyscraper,  hundreds  of  feet 
above  a  crowded  thoroughfare.  They  had  her,  as  the  screen 
said,  "Depressed  by  the  Grim  Menace  of  Tragedy  that 
Impended  in  the  Shadows."  They  gave  her  a  brief  respite 
in  one  of  those  gilded  resorts  "Where  the  Clink  of  Coin 
Opens  Wide  the  Portals  of  Pleasure,  Where  Wealth  Beckons 
with  Golden  Fingers,"  but  this  was  only  a  trap  for  the  un- 
suspecting girl,  who  was  presently,  sewed  in  a  plain  sack, 


194  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

tossed  from  the  stern  of  an  ocean  liner  far  out  at  sea  by 
creatures  who  would  do  anything  for  money — who,  so  it 
was  said,  were  Remorseless  in  the  Mad  Pursuit  of  Gain. 

At  certain  gripping  moments  it  became  apparent  to  one 
of  the  audience  that  Mrs.  Sigmund  Rosenblatt  herself  was 
no  longer  in  jeopardy.  He  knew  the  girl  who  was,  and  pro- 
foundly admired  her  artistry  as  she  fled  along  the  narrow 
cornice  of  the  skyscraper.  For  all  purposes  she  was  Beulah 
Baxter.  He  recalled  her  figure  as  being — not  exactly  stubby, 
but  at  least  not  of  marked  slenderness.  Yet  in  the  distance 
she  was  indeed  all  that  an  audience  could  demand.  And 
she  was  honest,  while  Mrs.  Rosenblatt,  in  the  Majestic 
Theatre  at  Peoria,  Illinois,  had  trifled  airily  with  his  faith  in 
women  and  deceived  him  by  word  of  mouth. 

He  applauded  loudly  at  the  sensational  finish,  when 
Hortense,  driving  her  motor  car  at  high  speed  across  the 
great  bridge,  ran  into  the  draw,  that  opened  too  late  for  her 
to  slow  down,  and  plunged  to  the  cruel  waters  far  below. 

Mrs.  Rosenblatt  would  possibly  have  been  a  fool  to  do  this 
herself.  The  Montague  girl  had  been  insistent  on  that  point; 
there  were  enough  things  she  couldn't  avoid  doing,  and  all 
stars  very  sensibly  had  doubles  for  such  scenes  when  distance 
or  action  permitted.  At  the  same  time,  he  could  never  again 
feel  the  same  toward  her.  Indeed,  he  would  never  have  felt 
the  same  even  had  there  been  no  Rosenblatt.  Art  was 
art! 

It  was  only  five  o'clock  when  he  left  the  picture  theatre, 
but  he  ate  again  at  the  luxurious  cafeteria.  He  ate  a  large 
steak,  drank  an  immense  quantity  of  milk,  and  bought  an- 
other box  of  candy  on  his  way  to  the  Patterson  home.  Lights 
were  on  there,  and  he  went  in  to  face  the  woman  he  had  so 
long  kept  out  of  her  money.  She  would  probably  greet  him 
coldly  and  tell  him  she  was  surprised  at  his  actions. 

Yet  it  seemed  that  he  had  been  deceived  in  this  society 
woman.  She  was  human,  after  all.  She  shook  hands  with 
him  warmly  and  said  they  were  glad  to  see  him  back;  he 
must  have  been  out  on  location,  and  she  was  glad  they  were 


THE  MONTAGUE  GIRL  INTERVENES       195 

not  to  lose  him,  because  he  was  so  quiet  and  regular  and  not 
like  some  other  motion-picture  actors  she  had  known. 

He  told  her  he  had  just  put  in  a  hard  week  on  the  Holden 
lot,  where  things  were  beginning  to  pick  up.  He  was  glad  she 
had  missed  him,  and  he  certainly  had  missed  his  comfortable 
room,  because  the  accommodations  on  the  lot  were  not  of  the 
best.  In  fact,  they  were  pretty  unsatisfactory,  if  you  came 
right  down  to  it,  and  he  hoped  they  wouldn't  keep  him  there 
again.  And,  oh,  yes— he  was  almost  forgetting.  Here  was 
ten  dollars — he  believed  there  were  two  weeks'  rent  now  due. 
He  passed  over  the  money  with  rather  a  Clifford  Armytage 
flourish. 

Mrs.  Patterson  accepted  the  bill  almost  protestingly.  She 
hadn't  once  thought  about  the  rent,  because  she  knew  he 
was  reliable,  and  he  was  to  remember  that  any  time  con- 
venient to  him  would  always  suit  her  in  these  matters.  She 
did  accept  the  bill,  still  she  was  not  the  heartless  creature  he 
had  supposed  her  to  be. 

As  he  bade  her  good-night  at  the  door  she  regarded  him 
closely  and  said,  "Somehow  you  look  a  whole  lot  older,  Mr. 
Armytage." 

"I  am,"  replied  Mr.  Armytage. 


Miss  Montague,  after  parting  with  her  protege  had  walked 
quickly,  not  without  little  recurrent  dance  steps — as  if  some 
excess  of  joy  would  ever  and  again  overwhelm  her — to  the 
long  office  building  on  the  Holden  lot,  where  she  entered  a 
door  marked  "Buckeye  Comedies.  Jeff  Baird,  Manager." 
The  outer  office  was  vacant,  but  through  the  open  door  to 
another  room  she  observed  Baird  at  his  desk,  his  head  bent 
low  over  certain  sheets  of  yellow  paper.  He  was  a  bulky, 
rather  phlegmatic  looking  man,  with  a  parrot-like  crest 
of  gray  hair.  He  did  not  look  up  as  the  girl  entered.  She 
stood  a  moment  as  if  to  control  her  excitement,  then  spoke. 
"Jeff,  I  found  a  million  dollars  for  you  this  morning." 
"Thanks!"  said  Mr.  Baird,  still  not  looking  up.  "Chuck 


196  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

it  down  in  the  coal  cellar,  will  you?  We're  littered  with  the 
stuff  up  here." 

"On  the  level,  Jeff." 

Baird  looked  up.     "On  the  level?" 

"You'll  say  so." 

"Shoot!" 

"Well,  he's  a  small-town  hick  that  saved  up  seventy-two 
dollars  to  co.me  here  from  Goosewallow,  Michigan,  to  go 
into  pictures — took  a  correspondence  course  in  screen- 
acting  and  all  that,  and  he  went  broke  and  slept  in  a  prop- 
erty room  down  in  the  village  all  last  week;  no  eats  at  all 
for  three,  four  days.  I'd  noticed  him  around  the  lot  on 
different  sets;  something  about  him  that  makes  you  look  a 
second  time.  I  don't  know  what  it  is — kind  of  innocent  and 
bug-eyed  the  way  he'd  rubber  at  things,  but  all  the  time  like 
as  if  he  thought  he  was  someone.  Well,  I  keep  running 
across  him  and  pretty  soon  I  notice  he's  up  against  it.  He 
still  thinks  he's  someone,  and  is  very  up-stage  if  you  start 
to  kid  him  the  least  bit,  but  the  signs  are  there,  all  right. 
He's  up  against  it  good  and  hard. 

"All  last  week  he  got  to  looking  worse  and  worse.  But 
he  still  had  his  stage  presence.  Say,  yesterday  he  looked  like 
the  juvenile  lead  of  a  busted  road  show  that  has  walked  in 
from  Albany  and  was  just  standing  around  on  Broadway  won- 
dering who  he'd  consent  to  sign  up  with  for  forty  weeks — see 
what  I  mean? — hungry  but  proud.  He  was  over  on  the 
Baxter  set  last  night  while  I  was  doing  the  water  stuff,  and 
you'd  ought  to  see  him  freeze  me  when  I  suggested  a  sand- 
wich and  a  cup  o'  coffee.  It  was  grand. 

"Well,  this  morning  I'm  back  for  a  bar  pin  of  Baxter's 
I'd  lost,  and  there  he  is  again,  no  overcoat,  shivering  his 
teeth  loose,  and  all  in.  So  I  fell  for  him.  Took  him  up  for 
some  coffee  and  eggs,  staked  him  to  his  room  rent,  and  sent 
him  off  to  get  cleaned  and  barbered.  But  before  he  went 
he  cut  loose  and  told  me  his  history  from  the  cradle  to 
Hollywood. 

"I'd  'a'  given  something  good  if  you'd  been  at  the  next 


THE  MONTAGUE  GIRL  INTERVENES       197 

table.  I  guess  he  got  kind  of  jagged  on  the  food,  see?  He'd 
tell  me  anything  that  run  in  his  mind,  and  most  of  it  was 
good.  You'll  say  so.  I'll  get  him  to  do  it  for  you  sometime. 
Of  all  the  funny  nuts  that  make  this  lot!  Well,  take  my 
word  for  it;  that's  all  I  ask.  And  listen  here,  Jeff — I'm 
down  to  cases.  There's  something  about  this  kid,  like 
when  I  tell  you  I'd  always  look  at  him  twice.  And  it's 
something  rich  that  I  won't  let  out  for  a  minute  or  two. 
But  here's  what  you  and  me  do,  right  quick: 

"The  kid  was  in  that  cabaret  and  gambling-house  stuff 
they  shot  last  week  for  The  Blight  of  Broadway,  and  this 
something  that  makes  you  look  at  him  must  of  struck  Hen- 
shaw  the  way  it  did  me,  for  he  let  him  stay  right  at  the  edge 
of  the  dance  floor  and  took  a  lot  of  close-ups  of  him  looking 
tired  to  death  of  the  gay  night  life.  Well,  you  call  up  the 
Victor  folks  and  ask  can  you  get  a  look  at  that  stuff  because 
you're  thinking  of  giving  a  part  to  one  of  the  extras  that 
worked  in  it.  Maybe  we  can  get  into  the  projection  room 
right  away  and  you'll  see  what  I  mean.  Then  I  won't 
have  to  tell  you  the  richest  thing  about  it.  Now!" — she 
took  a  long  breath — "will  you?" 

Baird  had  listened  with  mild  interest  to  the  recital,  oc- 
casionally seeming  not  to  listen  while  he  altered  the  script 
before  him.  But  he  took  the  telephone  receiver  from  its 
hook  and  said  briefly  to  the  girl:  "You  win.  Hello! 
Give  me  the  Victor  office.  Hello !  Mr.  Baird  speaking " 

The  two  were  presently  in  the  dark  projection  room  watch- 
ing the  scenes  the  girl  had  told  of. 

"They  haven't  started  cutting  yet,"  she  said  delightedly. 
"All  his  close-ups  will  be  in.  Goody!  There's  the  lad — 
get  him?  Ain't  he  the  actin'est  thing  you  ever  saw?  Now 
wait — you'll  see  others." 

Baird  watched  the  film  absorbedly.  Three  times  it  was 
run  for  the  sole  purpose  of  exposing  to  this  small  audience 
Merton  Gill's  notion  of  being  consumed  with  ennui  among 
pleasures  that  had  palled.  In  the  gambling-hall  bit  it  could 
be  observed  that  he  thought  not  too  well  of  cigarettes. 


198  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"He  screens  well,  too,"  remarked  the  girl.  "Of  course  I 
couldn't  be  sure  of  that." 

"He  screens  all  right,"  agreed  Baird. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think?" 

"I  think  he  looks  like  the  first  plume  on  a  hearse." 

"He  looks  all  of  that,  but  try  again.  Who  does  he  remind 
you  of?  Catch  this  next  one  in  the  gambling  hell — get  the 
profile  and  the  eyebrows  and  the  chin — there!" 

"Why "  Baird  chuckled.  "I'm  a  Swede  if  he  don't 

look  like " 

"You  got  it!"  the  girl  broke  in  excitedly.  "I  knew  you 
would.  I  didn't  at  first,  this  morning,  because  he  was  so 
hungry  and  needed  a  shave,  and  he  darned  near  had  me 
bawling  when  he  couldn't  hold  his  cup  o'  coffee  except  with 
two  hands.  But  what  d'you  think? — pretty  soon  he  tells 
me  himself  that  he  looks  a  great  deal  like  Harold  Parmalee 
and  wouldn't  mind  playing  parts  like  Parmalee,  though  he 
prefers  Western  stuff.  Wouldn't  that  get  you?" 

The  film  was  run  again  so  that  Baird  could  study  the  Gill 
face  in  the  light  of  this  new  knowledge. 

"He  does,  he  does,  he  certainly  does — if  he  don't  look  like 
a  No.  9  company  of  Parmalee  I'll  eat  that  film.  Say,  Flips, 
you  did  find  something." 

"Oh,  I  knew  it;  didn't  I  tell  you  so?" 

"But,  listen — does  he  know  he's  funny?" 

"Not  in  a  thousand  years!  He  doesn't  know  any  thing's 
funny,  near  as  I  can  make  him." 

They  were  out  in  the  light  again,  walking  slowly  back  to 
the  Buckeye  offices. 

"Get  this,"  said  Baird  seriously.  "You  may  think  I'm 
kidding,  but  only  yesterday  I  was  trying  to  think  if  I  couldn't 
dig  up  some  guy  that  looked  more  like  Parmalee  than  Parma- 
lee himself  does — just  enough  more  to  get  the  laugh,  see? 
And  you  spring  this  lad  on  me.  All  he  needs  is  the  eyebrows 
worked  up  a  little  bit.  But  how  about  him — will  he  handle? 
Because  if  he  will  I'll  use  him  in  the  new  five-reeler." 

"  Will  he  handle?  "    Miss  Montague  echoed  the  words  with 


THE  MONTAGUE  GIRL  INTERVENES       199 

deep  emphasis.  "Leave  him  to  me.  He's  got  to  handle. 
I  already  got  twenty-five  bucks  invested  in  his  screen  career. 
And,  Jeff,  he'll  be  easy  to  work,  except  he  don't  know  he's 
funny.  If  he  found  out  he  was,  it  might  queer  him — see 
what  I  mean?  He's  one  of  that  kind — you  can  tell  it. 
How  will  you  use  him?  He  could  never  do  Buckeye  stuff." 

"Sure  not.  But  ain't  I  told  you?  In  this  new  piece 
Jack  is  stage  struck  and  gets  a  job  as  valet  to  a  ham  that's 
just  about  Parmalee's  type,  and  we  show  Parmalee  acting  in 
the  screen,  but  all  straight  stuff,  you  understand.  Unless 
he's  a  wise  guy  he'll  go  all  through  the  piece  and  never  get 
on  that  it's  funny.  See,  his  part's  dead  straight  and  serious 
in  a  regular  drama,  and  the  less  he  thinks  he's  funny  the 
bigger  scream  he'll  be.  He's  got  to  be  Harold  Parmalee 
acting  right  out,  all  over  the  set,  as  serious  as  the  lumbago — 
get  what  I  mean?" 

"I  got  you,"  said  the  girl,  "and  you'll  get  him  to-morrow 
morning.  I  told  him  to  be  over  with  his  stills.  And  he'll 
be  serious  all  the  time,  make  no  mistake  there.  He's  no 
wise  guy.  And  one  thing,  Jeff,  he's  as  innocent  as  a  cup- 
custard,  so  you'll  have  to  keep  that  bunch  of  Buckeye  rough- 
necks from  riding  him.  I  can  tell  you  that  much.  Once 
they  started  kidding  him,  it  would  be  all  off." 

"And,  besides "  She  hesitated  briefly.  "Somehow  I 

don't  want  him  kidded.  I'm  pretty  hard-boiled,  but  he  sort 
of  made  me  feel  like  a  fifty-year-old  mother  watching  her  only 
boy  go  out  into  the  rough  world.  See?" 

"I'll  watch  out  for  that,"  said  Baird. 


CHAPTER  XII 

ALIAS  HAROLD   PARMALEE 

MERTON  GILL  awoke  to  the  comforting  realization 
that  he  was  between  sheets  instead  of  blankets,  and 
that  this  morning  he  need  not  obscurely  leave  his 
room  by  means  of  a  window.  As  he  dressed,  however,  cer- 
tain misgivings,  to  which  he  had  been  immune  the  day  be- 
fore, gnawed  into  his  optimism.  He  was  sober  now.  The 
sheer  intoxication  of  food  after  fasting,  of  friendly  concern 
after  so  long  a  period  when  no  one  had  spoken  him  kindly  or 
otherwise,  had  evaporated.  He  felt  the  depression  following 
success. 

He  had  been  rescued  from  death  by  starvation,  but  had 
anything  more  than  this  come  about?  Had  he  not  fed  upon 
the  charity  of  a  strange  girl,  taking  her  money  without  seeing 
ways  to  discharge  the  debt?  How  could  he  ever  discharge 
it?  Probably  before  this  she  had  begun  to  think  of  him  as 
a  cheat.  She  had  asked  him  to  come  to  the  lot,  but  had  been 
vague  as  to  the  purpose.  Probably  his  ordeal  of  struggle 
and  sacrifice  was  not  yet  over.  At  any  rate,  he  must  find  a 
job  that  would  let  him  pay  back  the  borrowed  twenty-five 
dollars. 

He  would  meet  her  as  she  had  requested,  assure  her  of 
his  honest  intentions,  and  then  seek  for  work.  He  would  try 
all  the  emporiums  in  Hollywood.  They  were  numerous  and 
some  one  of  them  would  need  the  services  of  an  experienced 
assistant.  This  plan  of  endeavour  crystallized  as  he  made 
his  way  to  the  Holden  lot.  He  had  brought  his  package  of 
stills,  but  only  because  the  girl  had  insisted  on  seeing  them. 

The  Countess  made  nothing  of  letting  him  in.  She  had 

200 


ALIAS  HAROLD  PARMALEE  201 

missed  him,  she  said,  for  what  seemed  like  months,  and  was 
glad  to  hear  that  he  now  had  something  definite  in  view, 
because  the  picture  game  was  mighty  uncertain  and  it  was 
only  the  lucky  few  nowadays  that  could  see  something 
definite.  He  did  not  confide  to  her  that  the  definite  some- 
thing now  within  his  view  would  demand  his  presence  at 
some  distance  from  her  friendly  self. 

He  approached  the  entrance  to  Stage  Five  with  head  bent 
in  calculation,  and  not  until  he  heard  her  voice  did  he  glance 
up  to  observe  that  the  Montague  girl  was  dancing  from 
pleasure,  it  would  seem,  at  merely  beholding  him.  She 
seized  both  his  hands  in  her  strong  grasp  and  revolved  him 
at  the  centre  of  a  circle  she  danced.  Then  she  held  him  off 
while  her  eyes  took  in  the  details  of  his  restoration. 

"Well,  well,  well!  That  shows  what  a  few  ham  and  eggs 
and  sleep  will  do.  Kid,  you  gross  a  million  at  this  minute. 
New  suit,  new  shoes,  snappy  cravat  right  from  the  Men's 
Quality  Shop,  and  all  shaved  and  combed  slick  and 
everything!  Say — and  I  was  afraid  maybe  you  wouldn't 
show." 

He  regarded  her  earnestly.  "Oh,  I  would  have  come  back, 
all  right;  I'd  never  forget  that  twenty-five  dollars  I  owe  you; 
and  you'll  get  it  all  back,  only  it  may  take  a  little  time.  I 
thought  I'd  see  you  for  a  minute,  then  go  out  and  find  a  job — 
you  know,  a  regular  job  in  a  store." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,  old  Trouper!"  She  danced  again 
about  him,  both  his  hands  in  hers,  which  annoyed  him  be- 
cause it  was  rather  loud  public  behaviour,  though  he  forgave 
her  in  the  light  of  youth  and  kindliness.  "No  regular  job 
for  you,  old  Pippin — nothing  but  acting  all  over  the  place — 
real  acting  that  people  come  miles  to  see." 

"Do  you  think  I  can  really  get  a  part?"  Perhaps  the 
creature  had  something  definite  in  view  for  him. 

"Sure  you  can  get  a  part!  Yesterday  morning  I  simply 
walked  into  a  part  for  you.  Come  along  over  to  the  office 
with  me.  Goody — I  see  you  brought  the  stills.  I'll  take  a 
peek  at  'em  myself  before  Baird  gets  here." 


202  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"Baird?  Not  the  Buckeye  comedy  man?"  He  was 
chilled  by  a  sudden  fear. 

"Yes,  Jeff  Baird.  You  see  he  is  going  to  do  some  five- 
reelers  and  this  first  one  has  a  part  that  might  do  for  you. 
At  least,  I  told  him  some  things  about  you,  and  he  thinks 
you  can  get  away  with  it." 

He  went  moodily  at  her  side,  thinking  swift  thoughts. 
It  seemed  ungracious  to  tell  her  of  his  loathing  for  the  Buck- 
eye comedies,  those  blasphemous  caricatures  of  worth-while 
screen  art.  It  would  not  be  fair.  And  perhaps  here  was  a 
quick  way  to  discharge  his  debt  and  be  free  of  obligation  to 
the  girl.  Of  course  he  would  always  feel  a  warm  gratitude 
for  her  trusting  kindness,  but  when  he  no  longer  owed  her 
money  he  could  choose  his  own  line  of  work.  Rather  bond- 
age to  some  Hollywood  Gashwiler  than  clowning  in  Baird's 
infamies ! 

"Well,  I'll  try  anything  he  gives  me,"  he  said  at  last, 
striving  for  the  enthusiasm  he  could  not  feel. 

"You'll  go  big,  too,"  said  the  girl.  "Believe,  me  Kid, 
you'll  go  grand." 

In  Baird's  offices  he  sat  at  the  desk  and  excitedly  undid 
the  package  of  stills.  "We'll  give  'em  the  once-over  before 
he  comes,"  she  said,  and  was  presently  exclaiming  with 
delight  at  the  art  study  of  Clifford  Armytage  in  evening 
dress,  two  straight  fingers  pressing  the  left  temple,  the  face 
in  three-quarter  view. 

"Well,  now,  if  that  ain't  Harold  Parmalee  to  the  life! 
If  it  wasn't  for  that  Clifford  Armytage  signed  under  it,  you'd 
had  me  guessing.  I  knew  yesterday  you  looked  like  him, 
but  I  didn't  dream  it  would  be  as  much  like  him  as  this 
picture  is.  Say,  we  won't  show  Baird  this  at  first.  We'll 
let  him  size  you  up  and  see  if  your  face  don't  remind  him  of 
Parmalee  right  away.  Then  we'll  show  him  this  and  it'll 
be  a  cinch.  And  my,  look  at  these  others — here  you're  a 
soldier,  and  here  you're  a — a — a  polo  player — that  is 
polo,  ain't  it,  or  is  it  tennis?  And  will  you  look  at  these 
stunning  Westerns!  These  are  simply  the  best  of  all — on 


ALIAS  HAROLD  PARMALEE  203 

horseback,  and  throwing  a  rope,  and  the  fighting  face  with 
the  gun  drawn,  and  rolling  a  cigarette — and,  as  I  live,  saying 
good-by  to  the  horse.  Wouldn't  that  get  you — Buck 
Benson  to  the  life!" 

Again  and  again  she  shuffled  over  the  stills,  dwelling  on 
each  with  excited  admiration.  Her  excitement  was  pro- 
nounced. It  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  nervous  excitement.  It 
had  caused  her  face  to  flush  deeply,  and  her  manner,  es- 
pecially over  the  Western  pictures,  at  moments  oddly 
approached  hysteria.  Merton  was  deeply  gratified.  He 
had  expected  the  art  studies  to  produce  no  such  impression 
as  this.  The  Countess  in  the  casting  office  had  certainly  mani- 
fested nothing  like  hysteria  at  beholding  them.  It  must 
be  that  the  Montague  girl  was  a  better  judge  of  art  studies. 

"I  always  liked  this  one,  after  the  Westerns,"  he  observed, 
indicating  the  Harold  Parmalee  pose. 

"It's  stunning,"  agreed  the  girl,  still  with  her  nervous 
manner.  "I  tell  you,  sit  over  there  in  Jeff's  chair  and  take 
the  same  pose,  so  I  can  compare  you  with  the  photo." 

Merton  obliged.  He  leaned  an  elbow  on  the  chair-arm 
and  a  temple  on  the  two  straightened  fingers.  "Is  the 
light  right?"  he  asked,  as  he  turned  his  face  to  the  pictured 
angle. 

"Fine,"  applauded  the  girl.  "Hold  it."  He  held  it 
until  shocked  by  shrill  laughter  from  the  observer.  Peal 
followed  peal.  She  had  seemed  oddly  threatened  with 
hysteria;  perhaps  now  it  had  come.  She  rocked  on  her  heels 
and  held  her  hands  to  her  sides.  Merton  arose  in  some 
alarm,  and  was  reassured  when  the  victim  betrayed  signs  of 
mastering  her  infirmity.  She  wiped  her  eyes  presently  and 
explained  her  outbreak. 

"You  looked  so  much  like  Parmalee  I  just  couldn't  help 
thinking  how  funny  it  was — it  just  seemed  to  go  over  me  like 
anything,  like  a  spasm  or  something,  when  I  got  to  thinking 
what  Parmalee  would  say  if  he  saw  someone  looking  so  much 
like  him.  See?  That  was  why  I  laughed." 

He  was  sympathetic  and  delighted  in  equal  parts.    The 


£04  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

girl  had  really  seemed  to  suffer  from  her  paroxysm,  yet  it 
was  a  splendid  tribute  to  his  screen  worth. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Baird  entered.  He  tossed  his 
hat  on  a  chair  and  turned  to  the  couple. 

"Mr.  Baird,  shake  hands  with  my  friend  Merton  Gill. 
His  stage  name  is  Clifford  Armytage." 

"Very  pleased  to  meet  you,"  said  Merton,  grasping  the 
extended  hand.  He  hoped  he  had  not  been  too  dignified,  too 
condescending.  Baird  would  sometime  doubtless  know  that 
he  did  not  approve  of  those  so-called  comedies,  but  for  the 
present  he  must  demean  himself  to  pay  back  some  money 
borrowed  from  a  working  girl. 

"Delighted,"  said  Baird;  then  he  bent  a  suddenly  troubled 
gaze  upon  the  Gill  lineaments.  He  held  this  a  long  moment, 
breaking  it  only  with  a  sudden  dramatic  turning  to  Miss 
Montague. 

"What's  this,  my  child?  You're  playing  tricks  on  the 
old  man."  Again  he  incredulously  scanned  the  face  of  Mer- 
ton. "Who  is  this  man?"  he  demanded. 

"I  told  you,  he's  Merton  Gill  from  Gushwomp,  Ohio," 
said  the  girl,  looking  pleased  and  expectant. 

"Simsbury,  Illinois,"  put  in  Merton  quickly,  wishing  the 
girl  could  be  better  at  remembering  names. 

Baird  at  last  seemed  to  be  convinced.     He  heavily  smote 
an  open  palm  with  a  clenched  fist.     "Well,  I'll  be  swoshed! 
I  thought  you  must  be  kidding.     If  I'd  seen  him  out  on  the 
lot  I'd  'a'  said  he  was  the  twin  brother  of  Harold  Parmalee." 

"There!"  exclaimed  the  girl  triumphantly.  "Didn't  I 
say  he'd  see  it  right  quick?  You  can't  keep  a  thing  from  this 
old  boy.  Now  you  just  come  over  here  to  this  desk  and  look 
at  this  fine  batch  of  stills  he  had  taken  by  a  regular  artist 
back  in  Cranberry." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Baird  unctuously,  "I  bet  they're  good. 
Show  me."  He  went  to  the  desk.  "Be  seated,  Mr.  Gill, 
while  I  have  a  look  at  these." 

Merton  Gill,  under  the  eye  of  Baird  which  clung  to  him 
with  something  close  to  fascination,  sat  down.  He  took  the 


ALIAS  HAROLD  PARMALEE 

chair  with  fine  dignity,  a  certain  masterly  deliberation.  He 
sat  easily,  and  seemed  to  await  a  verdict  confidently  fore- 
known. Baird's  eyes  did  not  leave  him  for  the  stills  until 
he  had  assumed  a  slightly  Harold  Parmalee  pose.  Then 
his  head  with  the  girl's  bent  over  the  pictures,  he  began  to 
examine  them. 

Exclamations  of  delight  came  from  the  pair.  Merton 
Gill  listened  amiably.  He  was  not  greatly  thrilled  by  an 
admiration  which  he  had  long  believed  to  be  his  due.  Had 
he  not  always  supposed  that  things  of  precisely  this  sort 
would  be  said  about  those  stills  when  at  last  they  came  under 
the  eyes  of  the  right  people? 

Like  the  Montague  girl,  Baird  was  chiefly  impressed  with 
the  Westerns.  He  looked  a  long  time  at  them,  especially 
at  the  one  where  Mer ton's  face  was  emotionally  averted  from 
his  old  pal,  Pinto,  at  the  moment  of  farewell.  Regarding 
Baird,  as  he  stood  holding  this  art  study  up  to  the  light, 
Merton  became  aware  for  the  first  time  that  Baird  suffered 
from  some  nervous  affliction,  a  peculiar  twitching  of  the 
lips,  a  trembling  of  the  chin,  which  he  had  sometimes  ob- 
served in  senile  persons.  All  at  once  Baird  seemed  quite  over- 
come by  this  infirmity.  He  put  a  handkerchief  to  his  face  and 
uttered  a  muffled  excuse  as  he  hastily  left  the  room.  Outside, 
the  noise  of  his  heavy  tread  died  swiftly  away  down  the  halL 

The  Montague  girl  remained  at  the  desk.  There  was  a 
strange  light  in  her  eyes  and  her  face  was  still  flushed.  She 
shot  a  glance  of  encouragement  at  Merton. 

"Don't  be  nervous,  old  Kid;  he  likes  'em  all  right." 

He  reassured  her  lightly:  "Oh,  I'm  not  a  bit  nervous 
about  him.  It  ain't  as  if  he  was  doing  something  worth 
while,  instead  of  mere  comedies." 

The  girl's  colour  seemed  to  heighten.  "You  be  sure  to 
tell  him  that;  talk  right  up  to  him.  Be  sure  to  say  'mere 
comedies.'  It'll  show  him  you  know  what's  what.  And  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  Kid,  he's  trying  to  do  something  worth 
while,  right  this  minute,  something  serious.  That's  why 
he's  so  interested  in  you." 


206  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"Well,  of  course,  that's  different."  He  was  glad  to  learn 
this  of  Baird.  He  would  take  the  man  seriously  if  he  tried  to 
be  serious,  to  do  something  fine  and  distinctive. 

Baird  here  returned,  looking  grave.  The  Montague  girl 
seemed  more  strangely  intense.  She  beckoned  the  manager 
to  her  side. 

"Now,  here,  Jeff,  here  was  something  I  just  naturally  had 
to  laugh  at." 

Baird  had  not  wholly  conquered  those  facial  spasms,  but 
he  controlled  himself  to  say,  "Show  me!'* 

"Now,  Merton,"  directed  the  girl,  "take  that  same  pose 
again,  like  you  did  for  me,  the  way  you  are  in  this  picture." 

As  Merton  adjusted  himself  to  the  Parmalee  pose  she 
handed  the  picture  to  Baird.  "Now,  Jeff,  I  ask  you — ain't 
that  Harold  to  the  life — ain't  it  so  near  him  that  you  just 
have  to  laugh  your  head  off?" 

It  was  even  so.  Baird  and  the  girl  both  laughed  con~ 
vulsively,  the  former  with  rumbling  chuckles  that  shook 
his  frame.  When  he  had  again  composed  himself  he  said, 
"Well,  Mr.  Gill,  I  think  you  and  I  can  do  a  little  business. 
I  don't  know  what  your  idea  about  a  contract  is,  but " 

Merton  Gill  quickly  interrupted.  "Well,  you  see  I'd 
hardly  like  to  sign  a  contract  with  you,  not  for  those  mere 
comedies  you  do.  I'll  do  anything  to  earn  a  little  money 
right  now  so  I  can  pay  back  this  young  lady,  but  I  wouldn't 
like  to  go  on  playing  in  such  things,  with  cross-eyed  people 
and  waiters  on  roller  skates,  and  all  that.  What  I  really 
would  like  to  do  is  something  fine  and  worth  while,  but  not 
clowning  hi  mere  Buckeye  comedies." 

Mr.  Baird,  who  had  devoted  the  best  part  of  an  active 
career  to  the  production  of  Buckeye  comedies,  and  who  re- 
garded them  as  at  least  one  expression  of  the  very  highest 
art,  did  not  even  flinch  at  these  cool  words.  He  had  once 
been  an  actor  himself.  Taking  the  blow  like  a  man,  he 
beamed  upon  his  critic.  "Exactly,  my  boy;  don't  you 
think  I'll  ever  ask  you  to  come  down  to  clowning.  You 
might  work  with  me  for  years  and  I'd  never  ask  you  to  do 


ALIAS  HAROLD  PARMALEE  207 

a  thing  that  wasn't  serious.  In  fact,  that's  why  I'm  hoping 
to  engage  you  now.  I  want  to  do  a  serious  picture,  I  want 
to  get  out  of  all  that  slap- stick  stuff,  see?  Something  fine 
and  worth  while,  like  you  say.  And  you're  the  very  actor 
I  need  in  this  new  piece." 

"Well,  of  course,  in  that  case "  This  was  different; 

he  made  it  plain  that  in  the  case  of  a  manager  striving  for 
higher  things  he  was  not  one  to  withhold  a  helping  hand.  He 
was  beginning  to  feel  a  great  sympathy  for  Baird  in  his  efforts 
for  the  worth  while.  He  thawed  somewhat  from  the  re- 
serve that  Buckeye  comedies  had  put  upon  him.  He  chatted 
amiably.  Under  promptings  from  the  girl  he  spoke  freely 
of  his  career,  both  in  Simsbury  and  in  Holly  wo  :d.  It  was 
twelve  o'clock  before  they  seemed  willing  to  let  him  go,  and 
from  time  to  time  they  would  pause  to  gloat  over  the  stills. 

At  last  Baird  said  cheerily,  "Well,  my  lad,  I  need  you  in 
my  new  piece.  How'll  it  be  if  I  put  you  on  my  payroll,  be- 
ginning to-day,  at  forty  a  week?  How  about  it,  hey?" 

"Well,  I'd  like  that  first  rate,  only  I  haven't  worked  any 
to-day;  you  shouldn't  pay  me  for  just  coming  here." 

The  manager  waved  a  hand  airily.  "That's  all  right,  my 
boy;  you've  earned  a  day's  salary  just  coming  here  to  cheer 
me  up.  These  mere  comedies  get  me  so  down  in  the  dumps 
sometimes.  And  besides,  you're  not  through  yet.  I'm 
going  to  use  you  some  more.  Listen,  now "  The  man- 
ager had  become  coldly  businesslike.  "You  go  up  to  a  little 
theatre  on  Hollywood  Boulevard — you  can't  miss  it — where 
they're  running  a  Harold  Parmalee  picture.  I  saw  it  last 
night  and  I  want  you  to  see  it  to-day,  Better  see  it  after- 
noon and  evening  both." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Merton. 

"And  watch  Parmalee.  Study  him  in  this  picture.  You 
look  like  him  already,  but  see  if  you  can  pick  up  some  of  his 
tricks,  see  what  I  mean?  Because  it's  a  regular  Parmalee 
part  I'm  going  to  have  you  do,  see?  Kind  of  a  society  part 
to  start  with,  and  then  we  work  in  some  of  your  Western 
stuff  at  the  finish.  But  get  Parmalee  as  much  as  you  can. 


208  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

That's  all  now.  Oh,  yes,  and  can  you  leave  these  stills  with 
me?  Our  publicity  man  may  want  to  use  them  later." 

"All  right,  Mr.  Baird,  I'll  do  just  what  you  say,  and  of 
course  you  can  keep  the  stills  as  long  as  I  got  an  engagement 
with  you,  and  I'm  very  glad  you're  trying  to  do  something 
really  worth  white." 

"Thanks,"  said  Baird,  averting  his  face. 

The  girl  followed  him  into  the  hall.  "Great  work,  boy, 
and  take  it  from  me,  you'll  go  over.  Say,  honest  now,  I'm 
glad  clear  down  into  my  boots."  She  had  both  his  hands 
again,  and  he  could  see  that  her  eyes  were  moist.  She  seemed 
to  be  an  impressionable  little  thing,  hysterical  one  minute 
while  looking  at  a  bunch  of  good  stills,  and  sort  of  weepy 
the  next.  But  he  was  beginning  to  like  her,  in  spite  of  her 
funny  talk  and  free  ways. 

"And  say,"  she  called  after  him  when  he  had  reached  the 
top  of  the  stairs,  "y°u  know  you  haven't  had  much  experi- 
ence yet  with  a  bunch  of  hard-bciled  troupers;  many  a  one 
will  be  jealous  of  you  the  minute  you  begin  to  climb,  and  may- 
be they'll  get  fresh  and  try  to  kid  you,  see?  But  don't  you 
mind  it — give  it  right  back  to  them.  Or  tell  me  if  they  get 
too  raw.  Just  remember  I  got  a  mean  right  when  I  swing 
free." 

"All  right,  thank  you,"  he  replied,  but  his  bewilderment 
was  plain. 

She  stared  a  moment,  danced  up  to  him,  and  seized  a  hand 
in  both  of  hers.  "What  I  mean  son,  if  you  feel  bothered  any 
time — by  anything — just  come  to  me  with  it,  see?  I'm  in 
this  piece,  and  I'll  look  out  for  you.  Don't  forget  that." 
She  dropped  his  hand,  and  was  back  in  the  office  while  he 
mumbled  his  thanks  for  what  he  knew  she  had  meant  as  a 
kindness. 

So  she  was  to  be  in  the  Baird  piece;  she,  too,  would  be 
trying  to  give  the  public  something  better  and  finer.  Still, 
he  was  puzzled  at  her  believing  he  might  need  to  be  looked 
out  for.  An  actor  drawing  forty  dollars  a  week  could  surely 
look  out  for  himself. 


ALIAS  HAROLD  PARMALEE  209 

He  emerged  into  the  open  of  the  Holden  lot  as  one  who 
had  at  last  achieved  success  after  long  and  gruelling  pri- 
vation. He  walked  briefly  among  the  scenes  of  this  privation, 
pausing  in  reminiscent  mood  before  the  Crystal  Palace  Hotel 
and  other  outstanding  spots  where  he  had  so  stoically  suffered 
the  torments  of  hunger  and  discouragement. 

He  remembered  to  be  glad  now  that  no  letter  of  appeal 
had  actually  gone  to  Gashwiler.  Suppose  he  had  built  up 
in  the  old  gentleman's  mind  a  false  hope  that  he  might  again 
employ  Merton  Gill?  A  good  thing  he  had  held  out!  Yes- 
terday he  was  starving  and  penniless;  to-day  he  was  fed  and 
on  someone's  payroll  for  probably  as  much  money  a  week  as 
Gashwiler  netted  from  his  entire  business.  From  sheer 
force  of  association,  as  he  thus  meditated,  he  found  him- 
self hungry,  and  a  few  moments  later  he  was  selecting  from 
the  food  counter  of  the  cafeteria  whatever  chanced  to  appeal 
to  the  eye — no  weighing  of  prices  now. 

Before  he  had  finished  his  meal  Henshaw  and  his  so-called 
Governor  brought  their  trays  to  the  adjoining  table.  Merton 
studied  with  new  interest  the  director  who  would  some  day 
be  telling  people  that  he  had  been  the  first  to  observe  the 
aptitude  of  this  new  star — had,  in  fact,  given  him  a  lot  of 
footage  and  close-ups  and  medium  shots  and  "dramatics"  in 
The  Blight  of  Broadway  when  he  was  a  mere  extra — before 
he  had  made  himself  known  to  the  public  in  Jeff  Baird's 
first  worth-while  piece. 

He  was  strongly  moved,  now,  to  bring  himself  to  Henshaw's 
notice  when  he  heard  the  latter  say,  "It's  a  regular  Harold 
Parmalee  part,  good  light  comedy,  plenty  of  heart  interest, 
and  that  corking  fight  on  the  cliff." 

He  wanted  to  tell  Henshaw  that  he  himself  was  already 
engaged  to  do  a  Harold  Parmalee  part,  and  had  been  told, 
not  two  hours  ago,  that  he  would  by  most  people  be  taken  for 
Parmalee's  twin  brother.  He  restrained  this  impulse,  how- 
ever, as  Henshaw  went  on  to  talk  of  the  piece  in  hand. 

It  proved  to  be  Robinson  Crusoe,  which  he  had  already  dis- 
cussed. Or,  rather,  not  Robinson  Crusoe  any  longer.  Not 


S10  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

even  Robinson  Crusoe,  Junior.  It  was  to  have  been  called 
Island  Passion,  he  learned,  but  this  title  had  been  amended 
to  Island  Love. 

"They're  getting  fed  up  on  that  word  'passion,'"  Henshaw 
was  saying,  "and  anyhow,  'love'  seems  to  go  better  with 
'island ,' don't  you  think,  Governor?  'Desert  Passion*  was 
all  right — there's  something  strong  and  intense  about  a 
desert.  But  'island'  is  different." 

And  it  appeared  that  Island  Love,  though  having  begun  as 
Robinson  Crusoe,  would  contain  few  of  the  outstanding  fea- 
tures of  that  tale.  Instead  of  Crusoe's  wrecked  sailing-ship, 
there  was  a  wrecked  steam  yacht,  a  very  expensive  yacht 
stocked  with  all  modern  luxuries,  nor  would  there  be  a  native 
Friday  and  his  supposed  sister  with  the  tattooed  shoulder, 
but  a  wealthy  young  New  Yorker  and  his  valet  who  would  be 
good  for  comedy  on  a  desert  island,  and  a  beautiful  girl, 
and  a  scoundrel  who  would  in  the  last  reel  be  thrown  over 
the  cliffs. 

Henshaw  was  vivacious  about  the  effects  he  would  get. 
"I've  been  wondering,  Governor,"  he  continued,  "if  we're 
going  to  kill  off  the  heavy,  whether  we  shouldn't  plant  it 
early  that  besides  wanting  this  girl  who's  on  the  island,  he's 
the  same  scoundrel  that  wronged  the  young  sister  of  the  lead 
that  owns  the  yacht.  See  what  I  mean? — it  would  give  more 
conflict." 

"But  here "  The  Governor  frowned  and  spoke  after 

a  moment's  pause.  "Your  young  New  Yorker  is  rich,  isn't 
he?  Fine  old  family,  and  all  that,  how  could  he  have  a 
sister  that  would  get  wronged?  You  couldn't  do  it.  If  he's 
got  a  wronged  sister,  he'd  have  to  be  a  workingman  or  a 
sailor  or  something.  And  she  couldn't  be  a  New  York 
society  girl;  she'd  have  to  be  working  some  place,  in  a  store 
or  office — don't  you  see?  How  could  you  have  a  swell 
young  New  Yorker  with  a  wronged  sister?  Real  society 
girls  never  get  wronged  unless  their  father  loses  his  money, 
and  then  it's  never  anything  serious  enough  to  kill  a  heavy 
for.  No— that's  out." 


ALIAS  HAROLD  PARMALEE  211 

"Wait,  I  have  it."  Henshaw  beamed  with  a  new  inspira- 
tion. "You  just  said  a  sailor  could  have  his  sister  wronged, 
so  why  not  have  one  on  the  yacht,  a  good  strong  type,  you 
know,  and  his  little  sister  was  wronged  by  the  heavy,  and  he'd 
never  known  who  it  was,  because  the  little  girl  wouldn't 
tell  him,  even  on  her  death-bed,  but  he  found  the  chap's 
photograph  in  her  trunk,  and  on  the  yacht  he  sees  that  it  was 
this  same  heavy — and  there  you  are.  Revenge — see  what 
I  mean?  He  fights  with  the  heavy  on  the  cliff,  after  show- 
ing him  the  little  sister's  picture,  and  pushes  him  over  to 
death  on  the  rocks  below — get  it?  And  the  lead  doesn't 
have  to  kill  him.  How  about  that?"  Henshaw  regarded 
his  companion  with  pleasant  anticipation. 

The  Governor  again  debated  before  he  spoke.  He  still 
doubted.  "  Say,  whose  show  is  this,  the  lead's  or  the  sailor's 
that  had  the  wronged  sister?  You'd  have  to  show  the  sailor 
and  his  sister,  and  show  her  being  wronged  by  the  heavy — 
that'd  take  a  big  cabaret  set,  at  least — and  you'd  have  to 
let  the  sailor  begin  his  stuff  on  the  yacht,  and  then  by  the 
time  he'd  kept  it  up  a  bit  after  the  wreck  and  pulled  off  the 
fight,  where  would  your  lead  be?  Can  you  see  Parmalee 
playing  second  to  this  sailor?  Why,  the  sailor'd  run  away 
with  the  piece.  And  that  cabaret  set  would  cost  money 
when  we  don't  need  it — just  keep  those  things  in  mind  a 
little." 

"Well,"  Henshaw  submitted  gracefully,  "anyway,  I 
think  my  suggestion  of  Island  Love  is  better  than  Island 
Passion — kind  of  sounds  more  attractive,  don't  you  think?" 

The  Governor  lighted  a  cigarette.  "Say,  Howard,  it's  a 
wonderful  business,  isn't  it?  We  start  with  poor  old  Robin- 
son Crusoe  and  his  goats  and  parrot  and  man  Friday,  and  after 
dropping  Friday's  sister  who  would  really  be  the  Countess 
of  Kleig,  we  wind  up  with  a  steam-yacht  and  a  comic  butler 
and  call  it  Island  Love.  Who  said  the  art  of  the  motion 
picture  is  in  its  infancy?  In  this  case  it'll  be  plumb  senile. 
Well,  go  ahead  with  the  boys  and  dope  out  your  hogwash. 
Gosh!  Sometimes  I  think  I  wouldn't  stay  in  the  business 


MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

if  it  wasn't  for  the  money.  And  remember,  don't  you  let 
a  single  solitary  sailor  on  that  yacht  have  a  wronged  sister 
that  can  blame  it  on  the  heavy,  or  you'll  never  have  Parmalee 
playing  the  lead." 

Again  Merton  Gill  debated  bringing  himself  to  the  notice 
of  these  gentlemen.  If  Parmalee  wouldn't  play  the  part 
for  any  reason  like  a  sailor's  wronged  sister,  he  would.  It 
would  help  him  to  be  known  in  Parmalee  parts.  Still,  he 
couldn't  tell  how  soon  they  might  need  him,  nor  how  soon 
Baird  would  release  him.  He  regretfully  saw  the  two  men 
leave,  however.  He  might  have  missed  a  chance  even  better 
than  Baird  v  ould  give  him. 

He  suddenly  remembered  that  he  had  still  a  professional 
duty  to  perform.  He  must  that  afternoon,  and  also  that 
evening,  watch  a  Harold  Parmalee  picture.  He  left  the 
cafeteria,  swaggered  by  the  watchman  at  the  gate — he  had 
now  the  professional  standing  to  silence  that  fellow — and 
made  his  way  to  the  theatre  Baird  had  mentioned. 

In  front  he  studied  the  billing  of  the  Parmalee  picture. 
It  was  "Object,  Matrimony — a  Smashing  Comedy  of  Love 
and  Laughter."  Harold  Parmalee,  with  a  gesture  of  mock 
dismay,  seemed  to  repulse  a  bevy  of  beautiful  maidens  who 
wooed  him.  Merton  took  his  seat  with  a  dismay  that  was 
not  mock,  for  it  now  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  no  expe- 
rience in  love  scenes,  and  that  an  actor  playing  Parmalee 
parts  would  need  a  great  deal  of  such  experience.  In  Sims- 
bury  there  had  been  no  opportunity  for  an  intending  actor 
to  learn  certain  little  niceties  expected  at  sentimental  mo- 
ments. Even  his  private  life  had  been  almost  barren  of 
adventures  that  might  now  profit  him. 

He  had  sometimes  played  kissing  games  at  parties,  and 
there  had  been  the  more  serious  affair  with  Edwina  May 
Pulver — nights  when  he  had  escorted  her  from  church  or 
sociables  to  the  Pulver  gate  and  lingered  in  a  sort  of  nervously 
worded  ecstasy  until  he  could  summon  courage  to  kiss  the 
girl.  Twice  this  had  actually  happened,  but  the  affair  had 
come  to  nothing,  because  the  Pulvers  had  moved  away  from 


ALIAS  HAROLD  PARMALEE  213 

Simsbury  and  he  had  practically  forgotten  Edwina  May; 
forgotten  even  the  scared  haste  of  those  embraces.  He 
seemed  to  remember  that  he  had  grabbed  her  and  kissed  her, 
but  was  it  on  her  cheek  or  nose? 

Anyway,  he  was  now  quite  certain  that  the  mechanics  of 
this  dead  amour  were  not  those  approved  of  in  the  best  screen 
circles.  Never  had  he  gathered  a  beauteous  girl  in  his  arms 
and  very  slowly,  very  accurately,  very  tenderly,  done  what 
Parmalee  and  other  screen  actors  did  in  their  final  fade-outs. 
Even  when  Beulah  Baxter  had  been  his  screen  ideal  he  had 
never  seen  himself  as  doing  more  than  save  her  from  some 
dreadful  fate.  Of  course,  later,  if  he  had  found  out  that  she 
was  unwed 

He  resolved  now  to  devote  special  study  to  Parmalee's 
methods  of  wooing  the  fair  creature  who  would  be  found  hi 
his  arms  at  the  close  of  the  present  film.  Probably  Baird 
would  want  some  of  that  stuff  from  him. 

From  the  very  beginning  of  "Object,  Matrimony"  it  was 
apparent  that  the  picture  drama  would  afford  him  excellent 
opportunities  for  studying  the  Parmalee  technique  in  what  an 
early  subtitle  called  "The  Eternal  Bittle  of  the  Sexes." 
For  Parmalee  in  the  play  was  Hubert  Throckmorton,  popular 
screen  idol  and  surfeited  with  the  attentions  of  adoring 
women.  Cunningly  the  dramatist  made  use  of  Parmalee's 
own  personality,  of  his  screen  triumphs,  and  of  the  adulation 
lavished  upon  him  by  discriminating  fair  ones.  His  break- 
fast tray  was  shown  piled  with  missives  amply  attesting  the 
truth  of  what  the  interviewer  had  said  of  his  charm.  All 
women  seemed  to  adore  Hubert  Throckmorton  in  the  drama, 
even  as  all  women  adored  Harold  Parmalee  in  private 
life. 

The  screen  revealed  Throckmorton  quite  savagely  ripping 
open  the  letters,  glancing  at  their  contents  and  flinging  them 
from  him  with  humorous  shudders.  He  seemed  to  be  asking 
why  these  foolish  creatures  couldn't  let  an  artist  alone.  Yet 
he  was  kindly,  in  this  half  humorous,  half -savage  mood. 
There  was  a  blending  of  chagrin  and  amused  tolerance  on 


214  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

his  face  as  the  screen  had  him  murmur,  casting  the  letter 
aside,  "Poor,  Silly  Little  Girls!" 

From  this  early  scene  Merton  learned  Parmalee's  method 
of  withdrawing  the  gold  cigarette  case,  of  fastidiously  se- 
lecting a  cigarette,  of  closing  the  case  and  of  absently — 
thinking  of  other  matters — tamping  the  gold-tipped  thing 
against  the  cover.  This  was  an  item  that  he  had  overlooked. 
He  should  have  done  that  in  the  cabaret  scene.  He  also 
mastered  the  Parmalee  trick  of  withdrawing  the  handker- 
chief from  the  cuff  of  the  perfectly  fitting  morning  coat. 
That  was  something  else  he  should  have  done  in  The  Blight 
of  Broadway.  Little  things  like  that,  done  right,  gave  the 
actor  his  distinction. 

The  drama  progressed.  Millionaire  Jasper  Gordon,  "A 
Power  in  Wall  Street,"  was  seen  telephoning  to  Throck- 
morton.  He  was  entreating  the  young  actor  to  spend  the 
week-end  at  his  palatial  Long  Island  country  home  to  meet 
a  few  of  his  friends.  The  grim  old  Wall  Street  magnate  was 
perturbed  by  Throckmorton's  refusal,  and  renewed  his  ap- 
peal. He  was  one  of  those  who  always  had  his  way  in  Wall 
Street,  and  he  at  length  prevailed  upon  Throckmorton  to 
accept  his  invitation.  He  than  manifested  the  wildest  de- 
light, and  he  was  excitedly  kissed  by  his  beautiful  daughter 
who  had  been  standing  by  his  side  in  the  sumptuous  library 
while  he  telephoned.  It  could  be  seen  that  the  daughter, 
even  more  than  her  grim  old  father,  wished  Mr.  Throckmor- 
ton to  be  at  the  Long  Island  country  home. 

Later  Throckmorton  was  seen  driving  his  high-powered 
roadster,  accompanied  only  by  his  valet,  to  the  Gordon 
country  home  on  Long  Island,  a  splendid  mansion  surrounded 
by  its  landscaped  grounds  where  fountains  played  and  roses 
bloomed  against  the  feathery  background  of  graceful  eucalyp- 
tus trees.  Merton  Gill  here  saw  that  he  must  learn  to  drive 
a  high-powered  roadster.  Probably  Baird  would  want  some 
of  that  stuff,  too. 

A  round  of  country-house  gaieties  ensued,  permitting 
Throckmorton  to  appear  in  a  series  of  perfectly  fitting  sports 


ALIAS  HAROLD  PARMALEE  215 

costumes.  He  was  seen  on  his  favourite  hunter,  on  the  ten- 
nis courts,  on  the  first  tee  of  the  golf  course,  on  a  polo  pony, 
and  in  the  mazes  of  the  dance.  Very  early  it  was  learned  that 
the  Gordon  daughter  had  tired  of  mere  social  triumphs  and 
wished  to  take  up  screen  acting  in  a  serious  way.  She  au- 
daciously requested  Throckmorton  to  give  her  a  chance  as 
leading  lady  in  his  next  great  picture. 

He  softened  his  refusal  by  explaining  to  her  that  acting 
was  a  difficult  profession  and  that  suffering  and  sacrifice 
were  necessary  to  round  out  the  artist.  The  beautiful  girl 
replied  that  within  ten  days  he  would  be  compelled  to  admit 
her  rare  ability  as  an  actress,  and  laughingly  they  wagered  a 
kiss  upon  it.  Merton  felt  that  this  was  the  sort  of  thing  he 
must  know  more  about. 

Throckmorton  was  courteously  gallant  in  the  scene.  Even 
when  he  said,  "Shall  we  put  up  the  stakes  now,  Miss  Gor- 
don?" it  could  be  seen  that  he  was  jesting.  He  carried  this 
light  manner  through  minor  scenes  with  the  beautiful  young 
girl  friends  of  Miss  Gordon  who  wooed  him,  lay  in  wait  for 
him,  ogled  and  sighed.  Always  he  was  the  laughingly 
tolerant  conqueror  who  had  but  a  lazy  scorn  for  his 
triumphs. 

He  did  not  strike  the  graver  note  until  it  became  sus- 
pected that  there  were  crooks  in  the  house  bent  upon  stealing 
the  famous  Gordon  jewels.  That  it  was  Throckmorton  who 
averted  this  catastrophe  by  sheer  nerve  and  by  use  of  his 
rare  histrionic  powers — as  when  he  disguised  himself  in  the 
coat  and  hat  of  the  arch  crook  whom  he  had  felled  with 
a  single  blow  and  left  bound  and  gagged,  in  order  to  re- 
ceive the  casket  of  jewels  from  the  thief  who  opened  the  safe 
in  the  library,  and  that  he  laughed  away  the  thanks  of  the 
grateful  millioniare,  astonished  no  one  in  the  audience,  though 
it  caused  Merton  Gill  to  wonder  if  he  could  fell  a  crook  with 
one  blow.  He  must  practise  up  some  blows. 

Throckmorton  left  the  palatial  country  home  wearied  by 
the  continuous  adulation.  The  last  to  speed  him  was  the 
Gordon  daughter,  who  reminded  him  of  their  wager;  within 


216  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

ten  days  he  would  acknowledge  her  to  be  an  actress  fit  to 
play  as  his  leading  woman. 

Throckmorton  drove  rapidly  to  a  simple  farm  where  he 
was  not  known  and  would  be  no  longer  surfeited  with  atten- 
tions. He  dressed  plainly  in  shirts  that  opened  wide  at  the 
neck  and  assisted  in  the  farm  labours,  such  as  pitching  hay 
and  leading  horses  into  the  barn.  It  was  the  simple  ex- 
istence that  he  had  been  craving — away  from  it  all !  No  one 
suspected  him  to  be  Hubert  Throckmorton,  least  of  all  the 
simple  country  maiden,  daughter  of  the  farmer,  in  her  neat 
print  dress  and  heavy  braid  of  golden  hair  that  hung  from 
beneath  her  sunbonnet.  She  knew  him  to  be  only  a  man 
among  men,  a  simple  farm  labourer,  and  Hubert  Throck- 
morton, wearied  by  the  adulation  of  his  feminine  public, 
was  instantly  charmed  by  her  coy  acceptance  of  his  atten- 
tions. 

That  this  charm  should  ripen  to  love  was  to  be  expected. 
Here  was  a  child,  simple,  innocent,  of  a  wild-rose  beauty  in 
her  print  dress  and  sunbonnet,  who  would  love  him  for  him- 
self alone.  Beside  a  blossoming  orange  tree  on  the  simple 
Long  Island  farm  he  declared  his  love,  warning  the  child 
that  he  had  nothing  to  offer  her  but  two  strong  arms  and  a 
heart  full  of  devotion. 

The  little  girl  shyly  betrayed  that  she  returned  his  love 
but  told  him  that  he  must  first  obtain  the  permission  of 
her  grandmother  without  which  she  would  never  consent 
to  wed  him.  She  hastened  into  the  old  farmhouse  to  pre- 
pare Grandmother  for  the  interview. 

Throckmorton  presently  faced  the  old  lady  who  sat  hud- 
dled in  an  armchair,  her  hands  crooked  over  a  cane,  a  ruffled 
cap  above  her  silvery  hair.  He  manfully  voiced  his  request 
for  the  child's  hand  in  marriage.  The  old  lady  seemed  to 
mumble  an  assent.  The  happy  lover  looked  about  for  his 
fiance  when,  to  his  stupefaction,  the  old  lady  arose  briskly 
from  her  chair,  threw  off  cap,  silvery  wig,  gown  of  black, 
and  stood  revealed  as  the  child  herself,  smiling  roguishly 
up  at  him  from  beneath  the  sunbonnet. 


ALIAS  HAROLD  PARMALEE  217 

With  a  glad  cry  he  would  have  seized  her,  when  she  stayed 
him  with  lifted  hand.  Once  more  she  astounded  him. 
Swiftly  she  threw  off  sunbonnet,  blonde  wig,  print  dress,  and 
stood  before  him  revealed  as  none  other  than  the  Gordon 
daughter. 

Hubert  Throckmorton  had  lost  his  wager.  Slowly,  as  the 
light  of  recognition  dawned  in  his  widening  eyes,  he  gathered 
the  beautiful  girl  into  his  arms.  "Now  may  I  be  your  lead- 
ing lady?"  she  asked. 

"My  leading  lady,  not  only  in  my  next  picture,  but  for 
life,"  he  replied. 

There  was  a  pretty  little  scene  in  which  the  wager  was  paid. 
Merton  studied  it.  Twice  again,  that  evening,  he  studied 
it.  He  was  doubtful.  It  would  seem  queer  to  take  a  girl 
around  the  waist  that  way  and  kiss  her  so  slowly.  Maybe 
he  could  learn.  And  he  knew  he  could  already  do  that  widen- 
ing of  the  eyes.  He  could  probably  do  it  as  well  as  Parmalee 
did. 


Back  in  the  Buckeye  office,  when  the  Montague  girl  had 
returned  from  her  parting  with  Merton,  Baird  had  said: 

"Kid,  you've  brightened  my  whole  day." 

"Didn't  I  tell  you?" 

"He's  a  lot  better  than  you  said." 

"But  can  you  use  him?" 

"You  can't  tell.  You  can't  tell  till  you  try  him  out. 
He  might  be  good,  and  he  might  blow  up  right  at  the 
start." 

"I  bet  he'll  be  good.  I  tell  you,  Jeff,  that  boy  is  just 
full  of  acting.  All  you  got  to  do — keep  his  stuff  straight, 
serious.  He  can't  help  but  be  funny  that  way." 

"We'll  see.  To  morrow  we'll  kind  of  feel  him  out.  He'll 
see  this  Parmalee  film  to-day — I  caught  it  last  night — and 
there's  some  stuff  in  it  I  want  to  play  horse  with,  see?  So 
I'll  start  him  to-morrow  in  a  quiet  scene,  and  find  out  does 
he  handle.  If  he  does,  we'll  go  right  into  some  hokum  drama 


218  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

stuff.  The  more  serious  he  plays  it  the  better.  It  ought  to 
be  good,  but  you  can't  ever  tell  in  our  trade.  You  know 
that  as  well  as  I  do." 

The  girl  was  confident.     "I  can  tell  about  this  lad,"  she 
insisted. 


CHAPTER  XIH 

GENIUS  COMES   INTO  ITS  OWN 

MERTON  GILL,  enacting  the  part  of  a  popular 
screen  idol,  as  in  the  play  of  yesterday,  sat  at 
breakfast  in  his  apartments  on  Stage  Number  Five. 
Outwardly  he  was  cool,  wary,  unperturbed,  as  he  peeled  the 
shell  from  a  hard-boiled  egg  and  sprinkled  salt  upon  it.  For 
the  breakfast  consisted  of  hard-boiled  eggs  and  potato  salad 
brought  on  in  a  wooden  dish. 

He  had  been  slightly  disturbed  by  the  items  of  this  meal; 
it  was  not  so  elegant  a  breakfast  as  Hubert  Throckmorton's, 
but  he  had  been  told  by  Baird  that  they  must  be  a  little 
different. 

He  had  been  slightly  disturbed,  too,  at  discovering  the 
faithful  valet  who  brought  on  the  simple  repast  was  the  cross- 
eyed man.  Still,  the  fellow  had  behaved  respectfully,  as  a 
valet  should.  He  had  been  quietly  obsequious  of  manner, 
revealing  only  a  profound  admiration  for  his  master  and  a 
constant  solicitude  for  his  comfort.  Probably  he,  like  Baird, 
was  trying  to  do  something  distinctive  and  worth  while. 

Having  finished  the  last  egg — glad  they  had  given  him  no 
more  than  three — the  popular  screen  idol  at  the  prompting  of 
Baird,  back  by  the  cameras,  arose,  withdrew  a  metal  ciga- 
rette case,  purchased  that  very  morning  with  this  scene  in 
view,  and  selected  a  cigarette.  He  stood  negligently,  as 
Parmalee  had  stood,  tapped  the  end  of  the  cigarette  on  the 
side  of  the  case,  as  Parmalee  had  done,  lighted  a  match  on  the 
sole  of  his  boot,  and  idly  smoked  in  the  Parmalee  manner. 

Three  times  the  day  before  he  had  studied  Parmalee  in 
this  bit  of  business.  Now  he  idly  crossed  to  the  centre-table 

219 


220  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

upon  which  reposed  a  large  photograph  album.  He  turned 
the  pages  of  this,  pausing  to  admire  the  pictures  there  re- 
vealed. Baird  had  not  only  given  him  general  instructions 
for  this  scene,  but  now  prompted  him  in  low,  encouraging 
tones. 

"Turn  over  slowly;  you  like  'em  all.  Now  lift  the  album 
up  and  hold  it  for  a  better  light  on  that  one.  It's  one  of 
the  best,  it  pleases  you  a  lot.  Look  even  more  pleased — 
smile!  That's  good.  Put  down  the  album;  turn  again, 
slowly;  turn  twice  more,  that's  it;  pick  it  up  again.  This  one 
is  fine " 

Baird  took  him  through  the  album  in  this  manner,  had 
him  close  it  when  all  the  leaves  were  turned,  and  stand  a 
moment  with  one  hand  resting  on  it.  The  album  had  been 
empty.  It  had  been  deemed  best  not  to  inform  the  actor 
that  later  close-ups  of  the  pages  would  show  him  to  have  been 
refreshed  by  studying  photographs  of  himself — copies,  in 
fact,  of  the  stills  of  Clifford  Armytage  at  that  moment  resting 
on  Baird's  desk. 

As  he  stood  now,  a  hand  affectionately  upon  the  album,  a 
trace  of  the  fatuously  admiring  smile  still  lingering  on  his 
expressive  face,  a  knock  sounded  upon  the  door.  "  Come  in," 
he  called.  . 

The  valet  entered  with  the  morning  mail.  This  consisted 
entirely  of  letters.  There  were  hundreds  of  them,  and  the 
valet  had  heaped  them  in  a  large  clothes-basket  which  he 
now  held  respectfully  in  front  of  him. 

The  actor  motioned  him,  with  an  authentic  Parmalee 
gesture,  to  place  them  by  the  table.  The  valet  obeyed, 
though  spilling  many  letters  from  the  top  of  the  overflowing 
basket.  These,  while  his  master  seated  himself,  he  briskly 
swept  up  with  a  broom. 

The  chagrined  amusement  of  Harold  Parmalee,  the  half- 
savage,  half-humorous  tolerance  for  this  perhaps  excusable 
weakness  of  woman,  was  here  accurately  manifested.  The 
actor  yawned  slightly,  lighted  another  cigarette  with  flawless 
Parmalee  technique,  withdrew  a  handkerchief  from  his 


GENIUS  COMES  INTO  ITS  OWN  221 

sleeve-cuff,  lightly  touched  his  forehead  with  it,  and  began  to 
open  the  letters.  He  glanced  at  each  one  in  a  quick,  bored 
manner,  and  cast  it  aside. 

When  a  dozen  or  so  had  been  thus  treated  he  was  aroused 
by  another  knock  at  the  door.  It  opened  to  reveal  the  valet 
with  another  basket  overflowing  with  letters.  Upon  this  the 
actor  arose,  spread  his  arms  wide  in  a  gesture  of  humorous 
helplessness.  He  held  this  briefly,  then  drooped  in  humorous 
despair. 

He  lighted  another  cigarette,  eyed  the  letters  with  that 
whimsical  lift  of  the  brows  so  characteristic  of  Parmalee,  and 
lazily  blew  smoke  toward  them.  Then,  regarding  the  smoke, 
he  idly  waved  a  hand  through  it.  "Poor,  silly  little  girls!" 
But  there  was  a  charming  tolerance  in  his  manner.  One  felt 
his  generous  recognition  that  they  were  not  wholly  without 
provocation. 

This  appeared  to  close  the  simple  episode.  The  scenes, 
to  be  sure,  had  not  been  shot  without  delays  and  rehearsals, 
and  a  good  two  hours  of  the  morning  had  elapsed  before  the 
actor  was  released  from  the  glare  of  light  and  the  need  to  re- 
member that  he  was  Harold  Parmalee.  His  peeling  of  an  egg, 
for  example,  had  not  at  first  been  dainty  enough  to  please  the 
director,  and  the  scene  with  the  album  had  required  many 
rehearsals  to  secure  the  needed  variety  of  expressions,  but 
Baird  had  been  helpful  in  his  promptings,  and  always 
kind. 

"Now,  this  one  you've  turned  over — it's  someone  you 
love  better  than  anybody.  It  might  be  your  dear  old  mother 
that  you  haven't  seen  for  years.  It  makes  you  kind  of  solemn 
as  you  show  how  fond  you  were  of  her.  You're  affected  deeply 
by  her  face.  That's  it,  fine!  Now  the  next  one,  you  like  it 
just  as  much,  but  it  pleases  you  more.  It's  someone  else 
you're  fond  of,  but  you're  not  so  solemn. 

"Now  turn  over  another,  but  very  slow — slow — but  don't 
let  go  of  it.  Stop  a  minute  and  turn  back  as  if  you  had  to 
have  another  peek  at  the  last  one,  see  what  I  mean?  Take 
plenty  of  time.  This  is  a  great  treat  for  you.  It  makes  you 


222  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

feel  kind  of  religious.  Now  you're  getting  it — that's  the 
boy!  All  right " 

The  scene  where  he  showed  humorous  dismay  at  the 
quantity  of  his  mail  had  needed  but  one  rehearsal.  He  had 
here  been  Harold  Parmalee  without  effort.  Also  he  had  not 
been  asked  to  do  again  the  Parmalee  trick  of  lighting  a 
cigarette  nor  of  withdrawing  the  handkerchief  from  its  cuff 
to  twice  touch  his  forehead  in  moments  of  amused  perplexity. 
Baird  had  merely  uttered  a  low  "Fine!"  at  beholding  these 
bits. 

He  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  when  released  from  the 
set.  Seemingly  he  had  met  the  test.  Baird  had  said  that 
morning,  "Now  we'll  just  run  a  little  kind  of  test  to  find  out  a 
few  things  about  you,"  and  had  followed  with  a  general 
description  of  the  scenes.  It  was  to  be  of  no  great  importance 
— a  minor  detail  of  the  picture. 

Perhaps  this  had  been  why  the  wealthy  actor  breakfasted 
in  rather  a  plainly  furnished  room  on  hard-boiled  eggs  and 
potato  salad.  Perhaps  this  had  been  why  the  costume  given 
him  had  been  not  too  well  fitting,  not  too  nice  in  detail. 
Perhaps  this  was  why  they  had  allowed  the  cross-eyed  man 
to  appear  as  his  valet.  He  was  quite  sure  this  man  would  not 
do  as  a  valet  in  a  high-class  picture.  Anyway,  however  un- 
important the  scene,  he  felt  that  he  had  acquitted  himself 
with  credit. 

The  Montague  girl,  who  had  made  him  up  that  morning, 
with  close  attention  to  his  eyebrows,  watched  him  from  back 
of  the  cameras,  and  she  seized  both  his  hands  when  he  left  the 
set.  "You're  going  to  land,'*  she  warmly  assured  him.  "I 
can  tell  a  trouper  when  I  see  one." 

She  was  in  costume.  She  was  apparently  doing  the  part 
of  a  society  girl,  though  slightly  overdressed,  he  thought. 

"We're  working  on  another  set  for  this  same  picture,"  she 
explained,  "but  I  simply  had  to  catch  you  acting.  You'll 
probably  be  over  with  us  to-morrow.  But  you're  through 
for  the  day,  so  beat  it  and  have  a  good  time." 

"Couldn't  I  come  over  and  watch  you?" 


GENIUS  COMES  INTO  ITS  OWN  223 

"No,  Baird  doesn't  like  to  have  his  actors  watching  things 
they  ain't  in;  he  told  me  specially  that  you  weren't  to  be 
around  except  when  you're  working.  You  see,  he's  using 
you  in  kind  of  a  special  part  in  this  multiple-reeler,  and  he's 
afraid  you  might  get  confused  if  you  watched  the  other  parts. 
I  guess  he'll  start  you  to-morrow.  You're  to  be  in  a  good, 
wholesome  heart  play.  You'll  have  a  great  chance  in  it." 

"Well,  I'll  go  see  if  I  can  find  another  Parmalee  picture 
for  this  afternoon.  Say,  you  don't  think  I  was  too  much  like 
him  in  that  scene,  do  you?  You  know  it's  one  thing  if  I  look 
like  him — I  can't  help  that — but  I  shouldn't  try  to  imitate 
him  too  closely,  should  I?  I  got  to  think  about  my  own 
individuality,  haven't  I?" 

"Sure,  sure  you  have!  But  you  were  fine — your  imitation 
wasn't  a  bit  too  close.  You  can  think  about  your  own 
individuality  this  afternoon  when  you're  watching  him." 


Late  that  day  in  the  projection  room  Baird  and  the 
Montague  girl  watched  the  "rush"  of  that  morning's  episode. 

"The  squirrel's  done  it,"  whispered  the  girl  after  the 
opening  scene.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Merton  Gill  on  the 
screen  might  overhear  her  comment. 

Even  Baird  was  low-toned.     "Looks  so,"  he  agreed. 

"If  that  ain't  Parmalee  then  I'll  eat  all  the  hard-boiled 
eggs  on  the  lot." 

Baird  rubbed  his  hands.  "It's  Parmalee  plus,"  he 
corrected. 

"Oh,  Mother,  Mother!"  murmured  the  girl  while  the 
screen  revealed  the  actor  studying  his  photographs. 

"He  handled  all  right  in  that  spot,"  observed  Baird. 

"He'll  handle  right — don't  worry.  Ain't  I  told  you  he's 
a  natural  born  trouper?" 

The  mail  was  abandoned  in  humorous  despair.  The 
cigarette  lighted  in  a  flawless  Parmalee  manner,  the  smoke 
idly  brushed  aside.  "Poor,  silly  little  girls,"  the  actor  was 
seen  to  say. 


224  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

The  girl  gripped  Baird's  arm  until  he  winced.  "There, 
old  Pippin !  There's  your  million,  picked  right  up  on  the  lot !" 

"Maybe,"  assented  the  cooler  Baird,  as  they  left  the 
projection  room. 

"And  say,"  asked  the  girl,  "did  you  notice  all  morning  how 
he  didn't  even  bat  an  eye  when  you  spoke  to  him,  if  the 
camera  was  still  turning?  Not  like  a  beginner  that'll  nearly 
always  look  up  and  get  out  of  the  picture." 

"What  I  bet,"  observed  Baird,  "I  bet  he'd  'a'  done  that 
album  stuff  even  better  than  he  did  if  I'd  actually  put  his  own 
pictures  in,  the  way  I'm  going  to  for  the  close  ups.  I  was 
afraid  he'd  see  it  was  kidding  if  I  did,  or  if  I  told  him  what 
pictures  they  were  going  to  be.  But  I'm  darned  now  if  I 
don't  think  he'd  have  stood  for  it.  I  don't  believe  you'll  ever 
be  able  to  peeve  that  boy  by  telling  him  he's  good." 

The  girl  glanced  up  defensively  as  they  walked. 

"Now  don't  get  the  idea  he's  conceited,  because  he  ain't. 
Not  one  bit." 

"How  do  you  know  he  ain't?" 

She  considered  this,  then  explained  brightly,  "Because  I 
wouldn't  like  him  if  he  was.  No,  no — now  you  listen 
here  "as  Baird  had  grinned.  "This  lad  believes  in  him- 
self, that's  all.  That's  different  from  conceit.  You  can  be- 
lieve a  whole  lot  in  yourself,  and  still  be  as  modest  as  a  new- 
hatched  chicken.  That's  what  he  reminds  me  of,  too." 


The  following  morning  Baird  halted  him  outside  the  set 
on  which  he  would  work  that  day.  Again  he  had  been  made 
up  by  the  Montague  girl,  with  especial  attention  to  the  eye- 
brows so  that  they  might  show  the  Parmalee  lift. 

"  I  just  want  to  give  you  the  general  dope  of  the  piece  before 
you  go  on,"  said  Baird,  in  the  shelter  of  high  canvas  backing. 
"You're  the  only  son  of  a  widowed  mother  and  both  you  and 
she  are  toiling  to  pay  off  the  mortgage  on  the  little  home. 
You're  the  cashier  of  this  business  establishment,  and  in  love 
with  the  proprietor's  daughter,  only  she's  a  society  girl  and 


GENIUS  COMES  INTO  ITS  OWN  225 

kind  of  looks  down  on  you  at  first.  Then,  there's  her  brother, 
the  proprietor's  only  son.  He's  the  clerk  in  this  place.  He 
doesn't  want  to  work,  but  his  father  has  made  him  learn  the 
business,  see?  He's  kind  of  a  no-good;  dissipated;  wears 
flashy  clothes  and  plays  the  races  and  shoots  craps  and 
drinks.  You  try  to  reform  him  because  he's  idolized  by  his 
sister  that  you're  in  love  with. 

"But  you  can't  do  a  thing  with  him.  He  keeps  on  and  gets 
in  with  a  rough  crowd,  and  finally  he  steals  a  lot  of  money  out 
of  the  safe,  and  just  when  they  are  about  to  discover  that  he's 
the  thief  you  see  it  would  break  his  sister's  heart  so  you  take 
the  crime  on  your  own  shoulders.  After  that,  just  before 
you're  going  to  be  arrested,  you  make  a  getaway — because, 
after  all,  you're  not  guilty — and  you  go  out  West  to  start  all 
over  again " 

"Out  there  in  the  big  open  spaces?"  suggested  Merton, 
who  had  listened  attentively. 

"Exactly,"  assented  Baird,  with  one  of  those  nervous 
spasms  that  would  now  and  again  twitch  his  lips  and  chin. 
"Out  there  in  the  big  open  spaces  where  men  are  men — 
that's  the  idea.  And  you  build  up  a  little  gray  home  in  the 
West  for  yourself  and  your  poor  old  mother  who  never  lost 
faith  in  you.  There'll  be  a  lot  of  good  Western  stuff  in  this — 
Buck  Benson  stuff,  you  know,  that  you  can  do  so  well — and 
the  girl  will  get  out  there  some  way  and  tell  you  that  her 
brother  finally  confessed  his  crime,  and  everything'll  be  jake, 
see  what  I  mean?" 

"Yes,  sir;  it  sounds  fine,  Mr.  Baird.  And  I  certainly 
will  give  the  best  that  is  in  me  to  this  part."  He  had  an 
impulse  to  tell  the  manager,  too,  how  gratified  he  was  that 
one  who  had  been  content  with  the  low  humour  of  the  Buck- 
eye comedies  should  at  last  have  been  won  over  to  the  better 
form  of  photodrama.  But  Baird  was  leading  him  on  to  the 
set;  there  was  no  time  for  this  congratulatory  episode. 

Indeed  the  impulse  was  swept  from  his  mind  in  the  novelty 
of  the  set  now  exposed,  and  in  the  thought  that  his  person- 
ality was  to  dominate  it.  The  scene  of  the  little  drama's 


226  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

unfolding  was  a  delicatessen  shop.  Counters  and  shelves 
were  arrayed  with  cooked  foods,  salads,  cheeses,  the  latter 
under  glass  or  wire  protectors.  At  the  back  was  a  cashier's 
desk,  an  open  safe  beside  it.  He  took  his  place  there  at 
Baird's  direction  and  began  to  write  in  a  ledger. 

"Now  your  old  mother's  coming  to  mop  up  the  place," 
called  Baird.  "  Come  on,  Mother !  You  look  up  and  see  her, 
and  rush  over  to  her.  She  puts  down  her  bucket  and  mop, 
and  takes  you  in  her  arms.  She's  weeping;  you  try  to  com- 
fort her;  you  want  her  to  give  up  mopping,  and  tell  her  you 
can  make  enough  to  support  two,  but  she  won't  listen  be- 
cause there's  the  mortgage  on  the  little  flat  to  be  paid  off. 
So  you  go  back  to  the  desk,  stopping  to  give  her  a  sad  look  as 
she  gets  down  on  the  floor.  Now,  try  it." 

A  very  old,  bent,  feeble  woman  with  a  pail  of  water  and 
cloths  tottered  on.  Her  dress  was  ragged,  her  white  hair 
hung  about  her  sad  old  face  in  disorderly  strands.  She  set 
down  her  bucket  and  raised  her  torn  apron  to  her  eyes. 

"Look  up  and  see  her,"  called  Baird.  "A  glad  light  comes 
into  her  eyes.  Rush  forward — say  'Mother'  distinctly, 
so  it'll  show.  Now  the  clench.  You're  crying  on  his  shoulder, 
Mother,  and  he's  looking  down  at  you  first,  then  off,  about  at 
me.  He's  near  crying  himself.  Now  he's  telling  you  to  give 
up  mopping  places,  and  you're  telling  him  every  little  helps. 

"All  right,  break.  Get  to  mopping,  Mother,  but  keep  on 
crying.  He  stops  for  a  long  look  at  you.  He  seems  to  be 
saying  that  some  day  he  will  take  you  out  of  such  work. 
Now  he's  back  at  his  desk.  All  right.  But  we'll  do  it  once 
more.  And  a  little  more  pathos,  Merton,  when  you  take  the 
old  lady  in  your  arms.  You  can  broaden  it.  You  don't 
actually  break  down,  but  you  nearly  do." 

The  scene  was  rehearsed  again,  to  Baird's  satisfaction, 
and  the  cameras  ground.  Merton  Gill  gave  the  best  that 
was  in  him.  His  glad  look  at  first  beholding  the  old  lady,  the 
yearning  of  his  eyes  when  his  arms  opened  to  enfold  her,  the 
tenderness  of  his  embrace  as  he  murmured  soothing  words, 
the  lingering  touch  of  his  hand  as  he  left  her,  the  manly 


GENIUS  COMES  INTO  ITS  OWN  227 

determination  of  the  last  look  in  which  he  showed  a  fresh 
resolve  to  release  her  from  this  toil,  all  were  eloquent  of  the 
deepest  filial  devotion  and  earnestness  of  purpose. 

Back  at  his  desk  he  was  genuinely  pitying  the  old  lady. 
Very  lately,  it  was  evident,  she  had  been  compelled  to  play  in 
a  cabaret  scene,  for  she  smelled  strongly  of  cigarettes,  and  he 
could  not  suppose  that  she,  her  eyes  brimming  with  anguished 
mother  love,  could  have  relished  these.  He  was  glad  when  it 
presently  developed  that  his  own  was  not  to  be  a  smoking 
part. 

"Now  the  dissipated  brother's  coming  on,"  explained 
Baird.  "He'll  breeze  in,  hang  up  his  hat,  offer  you  a  ciga- 
rette, which  you  refuse,  and  show  you  some  money  that  he 
won  on  the  third  race  yesterday.  You  follow  him  a  little 
way  from  the  desk,  telling  him  he  shouldn't  smoke  cigarettes, 
and  that  money  he  gets  by  gambling  will  never  do  him  any 
good.  He  laughs  at  you,  but  you  don't  mind.  On  your 
way  back  to  the  desk  you  stop  by  your  mother,  and  she  gets 
up  and  embraces  you  again. 

"Take  your  time  about  it — she's  your  mother,  remember." 

The  brother  entered.  He  was  indeed  dissipated  appearing, 
loudly  dressed,  and  already  smoking  a  cigarette  as  he  swag- 
gered the  length  of  the  shop  to  offer  Merton  one.  Merton 
refused  in  a  kindly  but  firm  manner.  The  flashy  brother 
now  pulled  a  roll  of  bills  from  his  pocket  and  pointed  to  his 
winning  horse  in  a  racing  extra.  The  line  in  large  type  was 
there  for  the  close-up — "Pianola  Romps  Home  in  Third 
Race." 

Followed  the  scene  in  which  Merton  sought  to  show  this 
youth  that  cigarettes  and  gambling  would  harm  him.  The 
youth  remained  obdurate.  He  seized  a  duster  and,  with 
ribald  action,  began  to  dust  off  the  rows  of  cooked  food  on 
the  counters.  Again  the  son  stopped  to  embrace  his  mother, 
who  again  wept  as  she  enfolded  him.  The  scene  was  shot. 

Step  by  step,  under  the  patient  coaching  of  Baird,  the 
simple  drama  unfolded.  It  was  hot  beneath  the  lights,  delays 
were  frequent  and  the  rehearsals  tedious,  yet  Merton  Gill 


228  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

continued  to  give  the  best  that  was  in  him.  As  the  day  wore 
on,  the  dissipated  son  went  from  bad  to  worse.  He  would 
leave  the  shop  to  place  money  on  a  horse  race,  and  he  would 
seek  to  induce  the  customers  he  waited  on  to  play  at  dice 
with  him.  A  few  of  them  consented,  and  one,  a  coloured 
man  who  had  come  to  purchase  pigs'-feet,  won  at  this  game 
all  the  bills  which  the  youth  had  shown  to  Merton  on  entering. 

There  were  moments  during  this  scene  when  Merton 
wondered  if  Baird  were  not  relapsing  into  Buckeye  comedy 
depths,  but  he  saw  the  inevitable  trend  of  the  drama  and  the 
justification  for  this  bit  of  gambling.  For  the  son,  now 
penniless,  became  desperate.  He  appealed  to  Merton  for  a 
loan,  urging  it  on  the  ground  that  he  had  a  sure  thing  thirty- 
to-one  shot  at  Latonia.  At  least  these  were  the  words  of 
Baird,  as  he  directed  Merton  to  deny  the  request  and  to 
again  try  to  save  the  youth  from  his  inevitable  downfall. 
Whereupon  the  youth  had  sneered  at  Merton  and  left  the 
place  in  deep  anger. 

There  followed  the  scene  with  the  boy's  sister,  only  daugh- 
ter of  the  rich  delicatessen  merchant,  whom  Merton  was 
pleased  to  discover  would  be  played  by  the  Montague  girl. 
She  entered  in  a  splendid  evening  gown,  almost  too  splendid, 
Merton  thought,  for  street  wear  in  daylight,  though  it  was 
partially  concealed  by  a  rich  opera  cloak.  The  brother  being 
out,  Merton  came  forward  to  wait  upon  her. 

"It's  like  this,"  Baird  explained.  "She's  just  a  simple 
New  York  society  girl,  kind  of  shallow  and  heartless,  because 
she  has  never  been  aroused  nor  anything,  see?  You're  the 
first  one  that's  really  touched  her  heart,  but  she  hesitates  be- 
cause her  father  expects  her  to  marry  a  count,  and  she's  come 
to  get  the  food  for  a  swell  banquet  they're  giving  for  him. 
She  says  where's  her  brother,  and  if  anything  happened  to 
him  it  would  break  her  heart.  Then  she  orders  what  she 
wants  and  you  do  it  up  for  her,  looking  at  her  all  the  time  as 
if  you  thought  she  was  the  one  girl  in  the  world. 

"She  kind  of  falls  for  you  a  little  bit,  still  she  is  afraid  of 
what  her  father  would  say.  Then  you  get  bolder,  see?  You 


GENIUS  COMES  INTO  ITS  OWN  229 

come  from  behind  the  counter  and  begin  to  make  love,  talking 
as  you  come  out — so-and-so,  so-and-so,  so-and-so — Miss 
Hoffmeyer,  I  have  loved  you  since  the  day  I  first  set  eyes  on 
you — so-and-so,  so-and-so,  so-and-so,  I  have  nothing  to  offer 
but  the  love  of  an  honest  man — she's  falling  for  it,  see?  So 
you  get  up  close  and  grab  her — cave-man  stuff.  Do  a  good 
hard  clench — she's  yours  at  last;  she  just  naturally  sags  right 
down  on  to  you.  You've  got  her. 

"Do  a  regular  Parmalee.  Take  your  time.  You're  going 
to  kiss  her  and  kiss  her  right.  But  just  as  you  get  down  to  it 
the  father  busts  hi  and  says  what's  the  meaning  of  this,  so  you 
fly  apart  and  the  father  says  you're  discharged,  because  his 
daughter  is  the  affianced  wife  of  this  Count  Aspirin,  see? 
Then  he  goes  back  to  the  safe  and  finds  all  the  money  has 
been  taken,  because  the  son  has  sneaked  in  and  grabbed  out 
the  bundle  and  hid  it  in  the  ice-box  on  his  way  out,  taking 
only  a  few  bills  to  get  down  on  a  horse.  So  he  says  call  the 
police — but  that's  enough  for  now.  Go  ahead  and  do  that 
love  scene  for  me." 

Slowly  the  scene  was  brought  to  Baird's  liking.  Slowly, 
because  Merton  Gill  at  first  proved  to  be  diffident  at  the 
crisis.  For  three  rehearsals  the  muscular  arm  of  Miss 
Montague  had  most  of  the  clenching  to  do.  He  believed  he 
was  being  rough  and  masterful,  but  Baird  wished  a  greater 
show  of  violence.  They  had  also  to  time  this  scene  with  the 
surreptitious  entrance  of  the  brother,  his  theft  of  the  money 
which  he  stuffed  into  a  paper  sack  and  placed  in  the  ice-box, 
and  his  exit. 

The  leading  man  having  at  last  proved  that  he  could  be 
Harold  Parmalee  even  in  this  crisis,  the  scene  was  extended 
to  the  entrance  of  the  indignant  father.  He  was  one  of  those 
self-made  men  of  wealth,  Merton  thought,  a  short,  stout 
gentleman  with  fiery  whiskers,  not  at  all  fashionably  dressed. 
He  broke  upon  the  embrace  with  a  threatening  stick.  The 
pair  separated,  the  young  lover  facing  him,  proud,  erect, 
defiant,  the  girl  drooping  and  confused. 

The  father  discharged  Merton  Gill  with  great  brutality, 


230  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

then  went  to  the  safe  at  the  back  of  the  room,  returning  to 
shout  the  news  that  he  had  been  robbed  by  the  man  who 
would  have  robbed  him  of  his  daughter.  It  looked  black  for 
Merton.  Puzzled  at  first,  he  now  saw  that  the  idolized 
brother  of  the  girl  must  have  taken  the  money.  He  seemed 
about  to  declare  this  when  his  nobler  nature  compelled  him  to 
a  silence  that  must  be  taken  for  guilt. 

The  erring  brother  returned,  accompanied  by  several 
customers.  "Bring  a  detective  to  arrest  this  man,"  ordered 
the  father.  One  of  the  customers  stepped  out  to  return  with 
a  detective.  Again  Merton  was  slightly  disquieted  at  per- 
ceiving that  the  detective  was  the  cross-eyed  man.  This 
person  bustled  about  the  place,  tapping  the  cooked  meats 
and  the  cheeses,  and  at  last  placed  his  hand  upon  the  shoulder 
of  the  supposed  thief.  Merton,  at  Baird's  direction,  drew 
back  and  threatened  him  with  a  blow.  The  detective 
cringed  and  said:  "I  will  go  out  and  call  a  policeman." 

The  others  now  turned  their  backs  upon  the  guilty  man. 
Even  the  girl  drew  away  after  one  long,  agonized  look  at  the 
lover  to  whose  embrace  she  had  so  lately  submitted.  He 
raised  his  arms  to  her  in  mute  appeal  as  she  moved  away, 
then  dropped  them  at  his  side. 

"Give  her  all  you  got  in  a  look,"  directed  Baird.  "You're 
saying:  *I  go  to  a  felon's  cell,  but  I  do  it  all  for  you.'  Dream 
your  eyes  at  her. "  Merton  Gill  obeyed. 

The  action  progressed.  In  this  wait  for  the  policeman 
the  old  mother  crept  forward.  She  explained  to  Merton  that 
the  money  was  in  the  ice-box  where  the  real  thief  had  placed 
it,  and  since  he  had  taken  the  crime  of  another  upon  his 
shoulders  he  should  also  take  the  evidence,  lest  the  un- 
fortunate young  man  be  later  convicted  by  that;  she  also 
urged  him  to  fly  by  the  rear  door  while  there  was  yet  time. 
He  did  these  things,  pausing  for  a  last  embrace  of  the  weeping 
old  lady,  even  as  the  hand  of  the  arriving  policeman  was  upon 
the  door. 

"All  for  to-day,  except  some  close-ups,"  announced  Baird 
when  this  scene  had  been  shot.  There  was  a  breaking  up  of 


GENIUS  COMES  INTO  ITS  OWN  231 

the  group,  a  relaxation  of  that  dramatic  tension  which  the 
heart-values  of  the  piece  had  imposed.  Only  once,  while 
Merton  was  doing  some  of  his  best  acting,  had  there  been  a 
kind  of  wheezy  tittering  from  certain  members  of  the  cast  and 
the  group  about  the  cameras. 

Baird  had  quickly  suppressed  this.  "  If  there's  any  kidding 
in  this  piece  it's  all  in  my  part,"  he  announced  in  cold,  clear 
tones,  and  there  had  been  no  further  signs  of  levity.  Merton 
was  pleased  by  this  manner  of  Baird's.  It  showed  that  he 
was  finely  in  earnest  in  the  effort  for  the  worth-while  things. 

And  Baird  now  congratulated  him,  seconded  by  the  Mon- 
tague girl.  He  had,  they  told  him,  been  all  that  could  be 
expected. 

"I  wasn't  sure  of  myself,"  he  told  them,  "in  one  scene, 
and  I  wanted  to  ask  you  about  it,  Mr.  Baird.  It's  where  I 
take  that  money  from  the  ice-box  and  go  out  with  it.  I 
couldn't  make  myself  feel  right.  Wouldn't  it  look  to  other 
people  as  if  I  was  actually  stealing  it  myself  ?  Why  couldn't 
I  put  it  back  in  the  safe?" 

Baird  listened  respectfully,  considering.  "I  think  not," 
he  announced  at  length.  "You'd  hardly  have  time  for  that, 
and  you  have  a  better  plan.  It'll  be  brought  out  in  the  sub- 
titles, of  course.  You  are  going  to  leave  it  at  the  residence 
of  Mr.  Hoffmeyer,  where  it  will  be  safe.  You  see,  if  you  put 
it  back  where  it  was,  his  son  might  steal  it  again.  We  thought 
that  out  very  carefully." 

"I  see,"  said  Merton.  "I  wish  I  had  been  told  that.  I 
feel  that  I  could  have  done  that  bit  a  lot  better.  I  felt  kind  of 
guilty." 

"You  did  it  perfectly,"  Baird  assured  him. 

"Kid,  you're  a  wonder,"  declared  the  Montague  girl. 
"I'm  that  tickled  with  you  I  could  give  you  a  good  hug,"  and 
with  that  curious  approach  to  hysteria  she  had  shown  while 
looking  at  his  stills,  she  for  a  moment  frantically  clasped  him 
to  her.  He  was  somewhat  embarrassed  by  this  excess,  but 
pardoned  it  in  the  reflection  that  he  had  indeed  given  the 
best  that  was  in  him. 


232  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"Bring  all  your  Western  stuff  to  the  dressing  room  to- 
morrow," said  Baird. 

Western  stuff — the  real  thing  at  last!  He  was  slightly 
amazed  later  to  observe  the  old  mother  outside  the  set.  She 
was  not  only  smoking  a  cigarette  with  every  sign  of  relish, 
but  she  was  singing  as  she  did  a  little  dance  step.  Still  she 
had  been  under  a  strain  all  day,  weeping,  too,  almost  continu- 
ously. He  remembered  this,  and  did  not  judge  her  harshly 
as  she  smoked,  danced,  and  lightly  sang, 

Her  mother's  name  was  Cleo, 

Her  father's  name  was  Pat; 
They  called  her  Cleopatra, 

And  let  it  go  at  that. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

OUT  THERE   WHERE  MEN  ARE  MEN 

FROM  the  dressing  room  the  following  morning, 
arrayed  in  the  Buck  Benson  outfit,  unworn  since  that 
eventful  day  on  the  Gashwiler  lot,  Merton  accompa- 
nied Baird  to  a  new  set  where  he  would  work  that  day.  Baird 
was  profuse  in  his  admiration  of  the  cowboy  embellish- 
ments, the  maroon  chaps,  the  new  boots,  the  hat,  the 
checked  shirt  and  gay  neckerchief. 

"I'm  mighty  glad  to  see  you  so  sincere  in  your  work," 
he  assured  Merton.  "A  lot  of  these  hams  I  hire  get  to  kidding 
on  the  set  and  spoil  the  atmosphere,  but  don't  let  it  bother 
you.  One  earnest  leading  man,  if  he'll  just  stay  earnest,  will 
carry  the  piece.  Remember  that — you  got  a  serious  part." 

"I'll  certainly  remember,"  Merton  earnestly  assured 
him. 

"Here  we  are;  this  is  where  we  begin  the  Western  stuff," 
said  Baird.  Merton  recognized  the  place.  It  was  the  High 
Gear  Dance  Hall  where  the  Montague  girl  had  worked.  The 
name  over  the  door  was  now  "The  Come  All  Ye,"  and  there 
was  a  hitching  rack  in  front  to  which  were  tethered  half-a- 
dozen  saddled  horses. 

Inside,  the  scene  was  set  as  he  remembered  it.  Tables 
for  drinking  were  about  the  floor,  and  there  was  a  roulette 
wheel  at  one  side.  A  red-shirted  bartender,  his  hah*  plastered 
low  over  his  brow,  leaned  negligently  on  the  bar.  Scattered 
around  the  room  were  dance-hall  girls  in  short  skirts,  and  a 
number  of  cowboys. 

"First,  I'll  wise  you  up  a  little  bit,"  said  Baird.  "  You've 
come  out  here  to  work  on  a  ranche  in  the  great  open  spaces, 

233 


234  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

and  these  cowboys  all  love  you  and  come  to  town  with  you 
every  time,  and  they'll  stand  by  you  when  the  detective  from 
New  York  gets  here.  Now — let's  see — I  guess  first  we'll  get 
your  entrance.  You  come  in  the  front  door  at  the  head  of 
them.  You've  ridden  in  from  the  ranche.  We  get  the  horse- 
back stuff  later.  You  all  come  in  yelling  and  so  on,  and  the 
boys  scatter,  some  to  the  bar  and  some  to  the  wheel,  and  some 
sit  down  to  the  tables  to  have  their  drinks  and  some  dance 
with  the  girls.  You  distribute  money  to  them  from  a  paper 
sack.  Here's  the  sack."  From  a  waiting  property  boy  he 
took  a  paper  sack.  "Put  this  in  your  pocket  and  take  it  out 
whenever  you  need  money. 

"It's  the  same  sack,  see,  that  the  kid  put  the  stolen  money 
in,  and  you  saved  it  after  returning  the  money.  It's  just  a 
kind  of  an  idea  of  mine,"  he  vaguely  added,  as  Merton  looked 
puzzled  at  this. 

"All  right,  sir. "  He  took  the  sack,  observing  it  to  contain  a 
rude  imitation  of  bills,  and  stuffed  it  into  his  pocket. 

"Then,  after  the  boys  scatter  around,  you  go  stand  at  the 
end  of  the  bar.  You  don't  join  in  their  sports  and  pastimes, 
see?  You're  serious;  you  have  things  on  your  mind.  Just 
sort  of  look  around  the  place  as  if  you  were  holding  yourself 
above  such  things,  even  if  you  do  like  to  give  the  boys  a  good 
time.  Now  we'll  try  the  entrance." 

Cameras  were  put  into  place,  and  Merton  Gill  led  through 
the  front  door  his  band  of  rollicking  good  fellows.  He 
paused  inside  to  give  them  bills  from  the  paper  sack/  They 
scattered  to  their  dissipations.  Their  leader  austerely  posed 
at  one  end  of  the  bar  and  regarded  the  scene  with  disapprov- 
ing eyes.  Wine,  women,  and  the  dance  were  not  for  him. 
He  produced  again  the  disillusioned  look  that  had  won  Hen- 
shaw. 

"Fine,"  said  Baird.     "Gun  it,  boys." 

The  scene  was  shot,  and  Baird  spoke  again:  "Hold  it, 
everybody;  go  on  with  your  music,  and  you  boys  keep  up  the 
dance  until  Mother's  entrance,  then  you  quit  and  back  off." 

Merton  was  puzzled  by  this  speech,  but  continued  his 


OUT  THERE  WHERE  MEN  ARE  MEN       235 

superior  look,  breaking  it  with  a  very  genuine  shock  of 
surprise  when  his  old  mother  tottered  in  at  the  front  door. 
She  was  still  the  disconsolate  creature  of  the  day  before,  be- 
draggled, sad-eyed,  feeble,  very  aged,  and  still  she  carried  her 
bucket  and  the  bundle  of  rags  with  which  she  had  mopped. 
Baird  came  forward  again. 

"Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you.  Of  course  you  had  your  old 
mother  follow  you  out  here  to  the  great  open  spaces,  but  the 
poor  old  thing  has  cracked  under  the  strain  of  her  hard  life, 
see  what  I  mean?  All  her  dear  ones  have  been  leaving  the 
old  nest  and  going  out  over  the  hills  one  by  one — you  were  the 
last  to  go — and  now  she  isn't  quite  right,  see? 

"You  have  a  good  home  on  the  ranche  for  her,  but  she 
won't  stay  put.  She  follows  you  around,  and  the  only  thing 
that  keeps  her  quiet  is  mopping,  so  you  humour  her;  you 
let  her  mop.  It's  the  only  way.  But  of  course  it  makes  you 
sad.  You  look  at  her  now,  then  go  up  and  hug  her  the  way 
you  did  yesterday;  you  try  to  get  her  to  give  up  mopping,  but 
she  won't,  so  you  let  her  go  on.  Try  it." 

Merton  went  forward  to  embrace  his  old  mother.  Here 
was  tragedy  indeed,  a  bit  of  biting  pathos  from  a  humble  life. 
He  gave  the  best  that  was  in  him  as  he  enfolded  the  feeble  old 
woman  and  strained  her  to  his  breast,  murmuring  to  her  that 
she  must  give  it  up — give  it  up. 

The  old  lady  wept,  but  was  stubborn.  She  tore  herself 
from  his  arms  and  knelt  on  the  floor.  "I  just  got  to  mop, 
I  just  got  to  mop,"  she  was  repeating  in  a  cracked  voice.  "If 
I  ain't  let  to  mop  I  git  rough  till  I'm  simply  a  scandal." 

It  was  an  affecting  scene,  marred  only  by  one  explosive 
bit  of  coarse  laughter  from  an  observing  cowboy  at  the  close 
of  the  old  mother's  speech.  Merton  Gill  glanced  up  in  sharp 
annoyance  at  this  offender.  Baird  was  quick  in  rebuke. 

"The  next  guy  that  laughs  at  this  pathos  can  get  off  the 
set,"  he  announced,  glaring  at  the  assemblage.  There  was 
no  further  outbreak  and  the  scene  was  filmed. 

There  followed  a  dramatic  bit  that  again  involved  the  de- 
mented mother.  "This  ought  to  be  good  if  you  can  do  it  the 


236  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

right  way,"  began  Baird.  "Mother's  mopping  along  there 
and  sloshes  some  water  on  this  Mexican's  boot — where  are 
you,  Pedro?  Come  here  and  get  this.  The  old  lady  sloshes 
water  on  you  while  you're  playing  monte  here,  so  you  yell 
Carramba  or  something,  and  kick  at  her.  You  don't  land  on 
her,  of  course,  but  her  son  rushes  up  and  grabs  your  arm — 
here,  do  it  this  way."  Baird  demonstrated.  "Grab  his 
wrist  with  one  hand  and  his  elbow  with  the  other  and  make 
as  if  you  broke  his  arm  across  your  knee — you  know,  like  you 
were  doing  joojitsey.  He  slinks  off  with  his  broken  arm,  and 
you  just  dust  your  hands  off  and  embrace  your  mother  again. 

"Then  you  go  back  to  the  bar,  not  looking  at  Pedro  at  all. 
See?  He's  insulted  your  mother,  and  you've  resented  it  in  a 
nice,  dignified,  gentlemanly  way.  Try  it." 

Pedro  sat  at  the  table  and  picked  up  his  cards.  He  was 
a  foul-looking  Mexican  and  seemed  capable  even  of  the 
enormity  he  was  about  to  commit.  The  scene  was  rehearsed 
to  Baird's  satisfaction,  then  shot.  The  weeping  old  lady, 
blinded  by  her  tears,  awkward  with  her  mop,  the  brutal 
Mexican,  his  prompt  punishment. 

The  old  lady  was  especially  pathetic  as  she  glared  at  her 
insulter  from  where  she  lay  sprawled  on  the  floor,  and 
muttered,  "  Carramba,  huh?  I  dare  you  to  come  outside  and 
say  that  to  me!" 

"Good  work,"  applauded  Baird  when  the  scene  was 
finished.  "Now  we're  getting  into  the  swing  of  it.  In  about 
three  days  here  we'll  have  something  that  exhibitors  can 
clean  up  on,  see  if  we  don't." 

The  three  days  passed  in  what  for  Merton  Gill  was  a 
whirlwind  of  dramatic  intensity.  If  at  times  he  was  vaguely 
disquieted  by  a  suspicion  that  the  piece  was  not  wholly 
serious,  he  had  only  to  remember  the  intense  seriousness  of 
his  own  part  and  the  always  serious  manner  of  Baird  in 
directing  his  actors.  And  indeed  there  were  but  few  mo- 
ments when  he  was  even  faintly  pricked  by  this  suspicion. 
It  seemed  a  bit  incongruous  that  Hoffmeyer,  the  delicatessen 
merchant,  should  arrive  on  a  bicycle,  dressed  in  cowboy  attire 


OUT  THERE  WHERE  MEN  ARE  MEN      237 

save  for  a  badly  dented  derby  hat,  and  carrying  a  bag  of  golf 
clubs;  and  it  was  a  little  puzzling  how  Hoffmeyer  should  have 
been  ruined  by  his  son's  mad  act,  when  it  would  have  been 
shown  that  the  money  was  returned  to  him.  But  Baird  ex- 
plained carefully  that  the  old  man  had  been  ruined  some  other 
way,  and  was  demented,  like  the  poor  old  mother  who  had 
gone  over  the  hills  after  her  children  had  left  the  home  nest. 

And  assuredly  in  Merton's  own  action  he  found  nothing 
that  was  not  deeply  earnest  as  well  as  strikingly  dramatic. 
There  was  the  tense  moment  when  a  faithful  cowboy  broke 
upon  the  festivities  with  word  that  a  New  York  detective 
was  coming  to  search  for  the  man  who  had  robbed  the  Hoff- 
meyer establishment.  His  friends  gathered  loyally  about 
Merton  and  swore  he  would  never  be  taken  from  them  alive. 
He  was  induced  to  don  a  false  mustache  until  the  detective 
had  gone.  It  was  a  long,  heavy  black  mustache  with  curl- 
ing tips,  and  in  this  disguise  he  stood  aloof  from  his  com- 
panions when  the  detective  entered. 

The  detective  was  the  cross-eyed  man,  himself  now  dis- 
guised as  Sherlock  Holmes,  with  a  fore-and-aft  cloth  cap  and 
drooping  blond  mustache.  He  smoked  a  pipe  as  he  examined 
those  present.  Merton  was  unable  to  overlook  this  scene, 
as  he  had  been  directed  to  stand  with  his  back  to  the  de- 
tective. Later  it  was  shown  that  he  observed  in  a  mirror  the 
Mexican  whom  he  had  punished  creeping  forward  to  in- 
form the  detective  of  his  man's  whereabouts.  The  coward's 
treachery  cost  him  dearly.  The  hero,  still  with  his  back 
turned,  drew  his  revolver  and  took  careful  aim  by  means  of 
the  mirror. 

This  had  been  a  spot  where  for  a  moment  he  was  troubled. 
Instead  of  pointing  the  weapon  over  his  shoulder,  aiming 
by  the  mirror,  he  was  directed  to  point  it  at  the  Mexican's 
reflection  in  the  glass,  and  to  fire  at  this  reflection.  "It's 
all  right,"  Baird  assured  him.  "It's  a  camera  trick,  see? 
It  may  look  now  as  if  you  were  shooting  into  the  mirror  but 
it  comes  perfectly  right  on  the  film.  You'll  see.  Go  on, 
aim  carefully,  right  smack  at  that  looking-glass — fire!" 


S38  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

Still  somewhat  doubting,  Merton  fired.  The  mirror  was 
shattered,  but  a  dozen  feet  back  of  him  the  treacherous 
Mexican  threw  up  his  arms  and  fell  lifeless,  a  bullet  through 
his  cowardly  heart.  It  was  a  puzzling  bit  of  trick-work,  he 
thought,  but  Baird  of  course  would  know  what  was  right,  so 
the  puzzle  was  dismissed.  Buck  Benson,  silent  man  of  the 
open,  had  got  the  scoundrel  who  would  have  played  him 
false. 

A  thrilling  struggle  ensued  between  Merton  and  the  hell- 
hound of  justice.  Perceiving  who  had  slain  his  would-be 
informant,  the  detective  came  to  confront  Merton.  Snatch- 
ing off  his  cap  and  mustache  he  stood  revealed  as  the  man 
who  had  not  dared  to  arrest  him  at  the  scene  of  his  crime. 
With  another  swift  movement  he  snatched  away  the  mus- 
tache that  had  disguised  his  quarry.  Buck  Benson,  at  bay, 
sprang  like  a  tiger  upon  his  antagonist.  They  struggled 
while  the  excited  cowboys  surged  about  them.  The  de- 
tective proved  to  be  no  match  for  Benson.  He  was  borne 
to  earth,  then  raised  aloft  and  hurled  over  the  adjacent 
tables. 

This  bit  of  acting  had  involved  a  trick  which  was  not  ob- 
scure to  Merton  like  his  shot  into  the  mirror  that  brought 
down  a  man  back  of  him.  Moreover,  it  was  a  trick  of  which 
he  approved.  When  he  bore  the  detective  to  earth  the  cam- 
eras halted  their  grinding  while  a  dummy  in  the  striking 
likeness  of  the  detective  was  substituted.  It  was  a  light 
affair,  and  he  easily  raised  it  for  the  final  toss  of  triumph. 

"Throw  it  high  as  you  can  over  those  tables  and  toward 
the  bar,"  called  Baird.  The  figure  was  thrown  as  directed. 

"Fine  work!  Now  look  up,  as  if  he  was  still  in  the  air, 
now  down,  now  brush  your  left  sleeve  lightly  with  your  right 
hand,  now  brush  your  right  sleeve  lightly  with  your  left 
hand. 

"All  right — cut.  Great,  Merton!  If  that  don't  get  you  a 
hand  I  don't  know  what  will.  Now  all  outside  for  the  horse- 
back stuff!" 

Outside,  the  faithful  cowboys  leaped  into  their  saddles  and 


OUT  THERE  WHERE  MEN  ARE  MEN      239 

urged  their  beloved  leader  to  do  the  same.  But  he  lingered 
beside  his  own  horse,  pleading  with  them  to  go  ahead.  He 
must  remain  in  the  place  of  danger  yet  awhile  for  he  had 
forgotten  to  bring  out  his  old  mother.  They  besought  him 
to  let  them  bring  her  out,  but  he  would  not  listen.  His 
alone  was  the  task. 

Reluctantly  the  cowboys  galloped  off.  As  he  turned  to 
re-enter  the  dance  hall  he  was  confronted  by  the  detective, 
who  held  two  frowning  weapons  upon  him.  Benson  was 
at  last  a  prisoner. 

The  detective  brutally  ordered  his  quarry  inside.  Benson, 
seeing  he  was  beaten,  made  a  manly  plea  that  he  might  be 
let  to  bid  his  horse  good-by.  The  detective  seemed  moved. 
He  relented.  Benson  went  to  his  good  old  pal. 

"Here's  your  chance  for  a  fine  bit,"  called  Baird.  "Give 
it  to  us  now  the  way  you  did  in  that  still.  Broaden  it  all 
you  want  to.  Go  to  it." 

Well  did  Merton  Gill  know  that  here  was  his  chance  for 
a  fine  bit.  The  horse  was  strangely  like  Dexter  upon  whom 
he  had  so  often  rehearsed  this  bit.  He  was  a  bony,  drooping, 
sad  horse  with  a  thin  neck.  "They're  takin'  ye  frum  me, 
old  pal — takin'  ye  frum  me.  You  an*  me  has  seen  some 
tough  times  an'  I  sort  o'  figgered  we'd  keep  on  together  till 
the  last — an'  now  they  got  me,  old  pal,  takin'  me  far  away 
where  ye  won't  see  me  no  more " 

"Go  to  it,  cowboy — take  all  the  footage  you  want!"  called 
Baird  in  a  curiously  choked  voice. 

The  actor  took  some  more  footage.  "But  we  got  to  keep 
a  stiff  upper  lip,  old  pal,  you  and  me  both.  No  cryin',  no 
bustin'  down.  We  had  our  last  gallop  together,  an*  we're 
at  the  forkin'  of  th'  trail.  So  we  got  to  be  brave — we  got  to 
stand  the  gaff." 

Benson  released  his  old  pal,  stood  erect,  dashed  a  bit  of 
moisture  from  his  eyes,  and  turned  to  the  waiting  detective 
who,  it  seemed,  had  also  been  strangely  moved  during  this 
affecting  farewell.  Yet  he  had  not  forgotten  his  duty. 
Benson  was  forced  to  march  back  into  the  Come  All  Ye  Dance 


240  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

Hall.  As  he  went  he  was  wishing  that  Baird  would  have 
him  escape  and  flee  on  his  old  pal. 

And  Baird  was  a  man  who  seemed  to  think  of  everything, 
or  perhaps  he  had  often  seen  the  real  Buck  Benson's  play, 
for  it  now  appeared  that  everything  was  going  to  be  as  Mer- 
ton  Gill  wished.  Baird  had  even  contrived  an  escape  that 
was  highly  spectacular. 

Locked  by  the  detective  in  an  upper  room,  the  prisoner 
went  to  the  window  and  glanced  out  to  find  that  his  loyal 
horse  was  directly  beneath  him.  He  would  leap  from  the 
window,  alight  in  the  saddle  after  a  twenty  foot  drop,  and 
be  off  over  the  border.  The  window  scene  was  shot,  in- 
cluding a  flash  of  the  horse  below.  The  mechanics  of  the 
leap  itself  required  more  time.  Indeed,  it  took  the  better 
part  of  a  morning  to  satisfy  Baird  that  this  thrilling  exploit 
had  been  properly  achieved.  From  a  lower  window,  quite 
like  the  high  one,  Merton  leaped,  but  only  to  the  ground 
a  few  feet  below. 

"That's  where  we  get  your  take-off,"  Baird  explained. 

"Now  we  get  you  lighting  in  the  saddle."  This  proved  to 
be  a  more  delicate  bit  of  work.  From  a  platform  built  out 
just  above  the  faithful  horse  Merton  precariously  scrambled 
down  into  the  saddle.  He  glanced  anxiously  at  Baird, 
fearing  he  had  not  alighted  properly  after  the  supposed 
twenty-foot  drop,  but  the  manager  appeared  to  be  delighted 
with  his  prowess  after  the  one  rehearsal,  and  the  scene  was 
shot. 

"It's  all  jake,"  Baird  assured  him.  "Don't  feel  worried. 
Of  course  we'll  trick  the  bit  where  you  hit  the  saddle;  the 
camera'll  look  out  for  that." 

One  detail  only  troubled  Merton.  After  doing  the  leap 
from  the  high  window,  and  before  doing  its  finish  where  he 
reached  the  saddle,  Baird  directed  certain  changes  in  his 
costume.  He  was  again  to  don  the  false  mustache,  to  put 
his  hat  on,  and  also  a  heavy  jacket  lined  with  sheep's  wool 
worn  by  one  of  the  cowboys  in  the  dance-hall.  Merton  was 
pleased  to  believe  he  had  caught  the  manager  napping  here. 


OUT  THERE  WHERE  MEN  ARE  MEN       241 

"But  Mr.  Baird,  if  I  leap  from  the  window  without  the 
hat  or  mustache  or  jacket  and  land  on  my  horse  in  them, 
wouldn't  it  look  as  if  I  had  put  them  on  as  I  was  falling?" 

Baird  was  instantly  overcome  with  confusion.  "Now, 
that's  so!  I  swear  I  never  thought  of  that,  Merton.  I'm 
glad  you  spoke  about  it  in  time.  You  sure  have  shown  me 
up  as  a  director.  You  see  I  wanted  you  to  disguise  your- 
self again — I'll  tell  you;  get  the  things  on,  and  after  we  shoot 
you  lighting  in  the  saddle  we'll  retake  the  window  scene. 
That'll  fix  it." 

Not  until  long  afterward,  on  a  certain  dread  night  when 
the  earth  was  to  rock  beneath  him,  did  he  recall  that  Baird 
had  never  retaken  that  window  scene.  At  present  the  young 
actor  was  too  engrossed  by  the  details  of  his  daring  leap  to 
remember  small  things.  Tie  leap  was  achieved  at  last. 
He  was  in  the  saddle  after  a  twenty -foot  drop.  He  gathered 
up  the  reins,  the  horse  beneath  him  coughed  plaintively,  and 
Merton  rode  him  out  of  the  picture.  Baird  took  a  load  off 
his  mind  as  to  this  bit  of  riding. 

"Will  you  want  me  to  gallop?"  he  asked,  recalling  the 
unhappy  experience  with  Dexter. 

"No;  just  walk  him  beyond  the  camera  line.  The  cam- 
era'll  trick  it  up  all  right."  So,  safely,  confidently,  he  had 
ridden  his  steed  beyond  the  lens  range  at  a  curious  shuffling 
amble,  and  his  work  at  the  Come  All  Ye  Dance  Hall  was  done. 

Then  came  some  adventurous  days  in  the  open.  In 
motor  cars  the  company  of  artists  was  transported  to  a  sunny 
nook  in  the  foothills  beyond  the  city,  and  here  in  the  wild, 
rough,  open  spaces,  the  drama  of  mother-love,  sacrifice,  and 
thrills  was  further  unfolded. 

First  to  be  done  here  was  the  continuation  of  the  hero's 
escape  from  the  dance-hall.  Upon  his  faithful  horse  he 
ambled  along  a  quiet  road  until  he  reached  the  shelter  of  an 
oak  tree.  Here  he  halted  at  the  roadside. 

"You  know  the  detective  is  following  you,"  explained 
Baird,  "and  you're  going  to  get  him.  Take  your  nag  over  a 
little  so  the  tree  won't  mask  him  too  much.  That's  it. 


242  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

Now,  you  look  back,  lean  forward  in  the  saddle,  listen! 
You  hear  him  coming.  Your  face  sets — look  as  grim  as  you 
can.  That's  the  stuff — the  real  Buck  Benson  stuff  when 
they're  after  him.  That's  fine.  Now  you  get  an  idea. 
Unlash  your  rope,  let  the  noose  out,  give  it  a  couple  of  whirls 
to  see  is  everything  all  right.  That's  it — only  you  still  look 
grim — not  so  worried  about  whether  the  rope  is  going  to  act 
right.  We'll  attend  to  that.  When  the  detective  comes  in 
sight  give  about  three  good  whirls  and  let  her  fly.  Try  it 
once.  Good!  Now  coil  her  up  again  and  go  through  the 
whole  thing.  Never  mind  about  whether  you're  going  to 
get  him  or  not.  Remember,  Buck  Benson  never  misses. 
We'll  have  a  later  shot  that  shows  the  rope  falling  over  his 
head." 

Thereupon  the  grim-faced  Benson,  strong,  silent  man  of 
the  open,  while  the  cameras  ground,  waited  the  coming  of 
one  who  hounded  him  for  a  crime  of  which  he  was  innocent. 
His  iron  face  was  relentless.  He  leaned  forward,  listening. 
He  uncoiled  the  rope,  expertly  ran  out  the  noose,  and  grimly 
waited.  Far  up  the  road  appeared  the  detective  on  a  gal- 
loping horse.  Benson  twirled  the  rope  as  he  sat  in  his  saddle. 
It  left  his  hand,  to  sail  gracefully  in  the  general  direction  of 
his  pursuer. 

"Cut!"  called  Baird.  "That  was  bully.  Now  you  got 
him.  Ride  out  into  the  road.  You're  dragging  him  off  his 
horse,  see?  Keep  on  up  the  road;  you're  still  dragging  the 
hound.  Look  back  over  your  shoulder  and  light  your  face 
up  just  a  little — that's  it,  use  Benson's  other  expression. 
You  got  it  fine.  You're  treating  the  skunk  rough,  but  look 
what  he  was  doing  to  you,  trying  to  pinch  you  for  something 
you  never  did.  That's  fine — go  ahead.  Don't  look  back  any 
more." 

Merton  was  chiefly  troubled  at  this  moment  by  the  thought 
that  someone  would  have  to  double  for  him  in  the  actual 
casting  of  the  rope  that  would  settle  upon  the  detective's 
shoulders.  Well,  he  must  practise  roping.  Perhaps,  by 
the  next  picture,  he  could  do  this  stuff  himself.  It  was  ex- 


OUT  THERE  WHERE  MEN  ARE  MEN       243 

citing  work,  though  sometimes  tedious.  It  had  required 
almost  an  entire  morning  to  enact  this  one  simple  scene,  with 
the  numerous  close-ups  that  Baird  demanded. 

The  afternoon  was  taken  up  largely  in  becoming  accus- 
tomed to  a  pair  of  old  Spanish  spurs  that  Baird  now  pro- 
vided him  with.  Baird  said  they  were  very  rare  old  spurs 
which  he  had  obtained  at  a  fancy  price  from  an  impoverished 
Spanish  family  who  had  treasured  them  as  heirlooms.  He 
said  he  was  sure  that  Buck  Benson  in  all  his  vast  collection 
did  not  possess  a  pair  of  spurs  like  these.  He  would  doubt- 
less, after  seeing  them  worn  by  Merton  Gill  in  this  picture, 
have  a  pair  made  like  them. 

The  distinguishing  feature  of  these  spurs  was  their  size. 
They  were  enormous,  and  their  rowels  extended  a  good  twelve 
inches  from  Merton's  heels  after  he  had  donned  them. 
"They  may  bother  you  a  little  at  first,"  said  Baird,  "but 
you'll  get  used  to  them,  and  they're  worth  a  little  trouble 
because  they'll  stand  out." 

The  first  effort  to  walk  in  them  proved  bothersome  indeed, 
for  it  was  made  over  ground  covered  with  a  low-growing 
vine  and  the  spurs  caught  in  this.  Baird  was  very  earnest 
in  supervising  this  progress,  and  even  demanded  the  presence 
of  two  cameras  to  record  it. 

"Of  course  I'm  not  using  this  stuff,"  he  said,  "but  I  want 
to  make  a  careful  study  of  it.  These  are  genuine  hidalgo 
spurs.  Mighty  few  men  in  this  line  of  parts  could  get  away 
with  them.  I  bet  Benson  himself  would  have  a  lot  of  trouble. 
Now,  try  it  once  more." 

Merton  tried  once  more,  stumbling  as  the  spurs  caught 
in  the  undergrowth.  The  cameras  closely  recorded  his 
efforts,  and  Baird  applauded  them.  "You're  getting  it — 
keep  on.  That's  better.  Now  try  to  run  a  few  steps — go 
right  toward  that  left-hand  camera." 

He  ran  the  few  steps,  but  fell  headlong.  He  picked  him- 
self up,  an  expression  of  chagrin  on  his  face. 

"Never  mind,"  urged  Baird.  "Try  it  again.  We  must 
get  this  right." 


244  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

He  tried  again  to  run;  was  again  thrown.  But  he  was 
determined  to  please  the  manager,  and  he  earnestly  continued 
his  efforts.  Benson  himself  would  see  the  picture  and  prob- 
ably marvel  that  a  new  man  should  have  mastered,  appar- 
ently with  ease,  a  pair  of  genuine  hidalgos. 

"Maybe  we  better  try  smoother  ground,"  Baird  at  last 
suggested  after  repeated  falls  had  shown  that  the  under- 
growth was  difficult.  So  the  cameras  were  moved  on  to  the 
front  of  a  ranche  house  now  in  use  for  the  drama,  and  the 
spur  lessons  continued.  But  on  smooth  ground  it  appeared 
that  the  spurs  were  still  troublesome.  After  the  first  mis- 
hap here  Merton  discovered  the  cause.  The  long  shanks 
were  curved  inward  so  that  in  walking  their  ends  clashed. 
He  pointed  this  out  to  Baird,  who  was  amazed  at  the  dis- 
covery. 

"Well,  well,  that's  so!  They're  bound  to  interfere.  I 
never  knew  that  about  hidalgo  spurs  before." 

"We  might  straighten  them,"  suggested  the  actor. 

"No,  no,"  Baird  insisted,  "I  wouldn't  dare  try  that. 
They  cost  too  much  money,  and  it  might  break  'em.  I  tell 
you  what  you  do,  stand  up  and  try  this:  just  toe  in  a  little 
when  you  walk — that'll  bring  the  points  apart.  There — 
that's  it;  that's  fine." 

The  cameras  were  again  recording  so  that  Baird  could 
later  make  his  study  of  the  difficulties  to  be  mastered  by  the 
wearer  of  genuine  hidalgos.  By  toeing  in  Merton  now  suc- 
ceeded in  walking  without  disaster,  though  he  could  not  feel 
that  he  was  taking  the  free  stride  of  men  out  there  in  the  open 
spaces. 

"Now  try  running,"  directed  Baird,  and  he  tried  running; 
but  again  the  spurs  caught  and  he  was  thrown  full  in  the 
eyes  of  the  grinding  camera.  He  had  forgotten  to  toe  in. 
But  he  would  not  give  up.  His  face  was  set  in  Buck  Benson 
grimness.  Each  time  he  picked  himself  up  and  earnestly 
resumed  the  effort.  The  rowels  were  now  catching  in  the 
long  hair  of  his  chaps. 

He  worked  on,  directed  and  cheered  by  the  patient  Baird, 


OUT  THERE  WHERE  MEN  ARE  MEN       245 

while  the  two  camera  men,  with  curiously  strained  faces, 
recorded  his  failures.  Baird  had  given  strict  orders  that 
other  members  of  the  company  should  remain  at  a  distance 
during  the  spur  lessons,  but  now  he  seemed  to  believe  that  a 
few  other  people  might  encourage  the  learner.  Merton  was 
directed  to  run  to  his  old  mother  who,  bucket  at  her  side  and 
mop  in  hand,  knelt  on  the  ground  at  a  little  distance.  He 
was  also  directed  to  run  toward  the  Montague  girl,  now 
in  frontier  attire  of  fringed  buckskin.  He  made  earnest 
efforts  to  keep  his  feet  during  these  essays,  but  the  spurs 
still  proved  treacherous. 

"Just  pick  yourself  up  and  go  on,"  ordered  Baird,  and  had 
the  cameras  secure  close  shots  of  Merton  picking  himself  up 
and  going  carefully  on,  toeing  in  now,  to  embrace  his  weep- 
ing old  mother  and  the  breathless  girl  who  had  awaited  him 
with  open  arms. 

He  was  tired  that  night,  but  the  actual  contusions  he  had 
suffered  in  his  falls  were  forgotten  in  the  fear  that  he  might 
fail  to  master  the  hidalgos.  Baird  himself  seemed  confident 
that  his  pupil  would  yet  excite  the  jealousy  of  Buck  Benson 
in  this  hazardous  detail  of  the  screen  art.  He  seemed,  indeed, 
to  be  curiously  satisfied  with  his  afternoon's  work.  He  said 
that  he  would  study  the  film  carefully  and  try  to  discover 
just  how  the  spurs  could  be  mastered. 

"You'll  show  'em  yet  how  to  take  a  joke,"  he  declared 
when  the  puzzling  implements  were  at  last  doffed.  The 
young  actor  felt  repaid  for  his  earnest  efforts.  No  one  could 
put  on  a  pair  of  genuine  hidalgos  for  the  first  time  and  ex- 
pect to  handle  them  correctly. 

There  were  many  days  in  the  hills.  Until  this  time  the 
simple  drama  had  been  fairly  coherent  in  Merton  Gill's 
mind.  So  consecutively  were  the  scenes  shot  that  the  story 
had  not  been  hard  to  follow.  But  now  came  rather  a  jum- 
ble of  scenes,  not  only  at  times  bewildering  in  themselves, 
but  apparently  unrelated. 

First  it  appeared  that  the  Montague  girl,  as  Miss  Rebecca 
Hoffmeyer,  had  tired  of  being  a  mere  New  York  society 


246  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

butterfly,  had  come  out  into  the  big  open  spaces  to  do  some- 
thing real,  something  worth  while.  The  ruin  of  her  father, 
still  unexplained,  had  seemed  to  call  out  unsuspected  re- 
serves in  the  girl.  She  was  stern  and  businesslike  in  such 
scenes  as  Merton  was  permitted  to  observe.  And  she  had 
not  only  brought  her  ruined  father  out  to  the  open  spaces 
but  the  dissipated  brother,  who  was  still  seen  to  play  at  dice 
whenever  opportunity  offered.  He  played  with  the  jolly 
cowboys  and  invariably  won. 

Off  in  the  hills  there  were  many  scenes  which  Merton  did 
not  overlook.  "I  want  you  to  have  just  your  own  part  in 
mind,"  Baird  told  him.  And,  although  he  was  puzzled 
later,  he  knew  that  Baird  was  somehow  making  it  right  in  the 
drama  when  he  became  again  the  successful  actor  of  that 
first  scene,  which  he  had  almost  forgotten.  He  was  no  longer 
the  Buck  Benson  of  the  open  spaces,  but  the  foremost  idol 
of  the  shadowed  stage,  and  in  Harold  Parmalee's  best  manner 
he  informed  the  aspiring  Montague  girl  that  he  could  not 
accept  her  as  leading  lady  in  his  next  picture  because  she 
lacked  experience.  The  wager  of  a  kiss  was  laughingly  made 
as  she  promised  that  within  ten  days  she  would  convince  him 
of  her  talent. 

Later  she  herself,  in  an  effective  scene,  became  the  grim- 
faced  Buck  Benson  and  held  the  actor  up  at  the  point  of 
her  two  guns.  Then,  when  she  had  convinced  him  that  she 
was  Benson,  she  appeared  after  an  interval  as  her  own  father; 
the  fiery  beard,  the  derby  hat  with  its  dents,  the  chaps, 
the  bicycle,  and  golf  bag.  In  this  scene  she  seemed  to  de- 
mand the  actor's  intentions  toward  the  daughter,  and  again 
overwhelmed  him  with  confusion,  as  Parmalee  had  been 
overwhelmed  when  she  revealed  her  true  self  under  the  baf- 
fling disguise.  The  wager  of  a  kiss  was  prettily  paid.  This 
much  of  the  drama  he  knew.  And  there  was  an  affecting 
final  scene  on  a  hillside. 

The  actor,  arrayed  in  chaps,  spurs,  and  boots  below  the 
waist  was,  above  this,  in  faultless  evening  dress.  "You  see, 
it's  a  masquerade  party  at  the  ranche,"  Baird  explained,  "and 


OUT  THERE  WHERE  MEN  ARE  MEN       247 

you've  thought  up  this  costume  to  sort  of  puzzle  the  little 
lady." 

The  girl  herself  was  in  the  short,  fringed  buckskin  skirt, 
with  knife  and  revolvers  in  her  belt.  Off  in  the  hills  day 
after  day  she  had  worn  this  costume  in  those  active  scenes 
he  had  not  witnessed.  Now  she  was  merely  coy.  He  fol- 
lowed her  out  on  the  hillside  with  only  a  little  trouble  from 
the  spurs — indeed  he  fell  but  once  as  he  approached  her — 
and  the  little  drama  of  the  lovers,  at  last  united,  was  touch- 
ingly  shown. 

In  the  background,  as  they  stood  entwined,  the  poor  de- 
mented old  mother  was  seen.  With  mop  and  bucket  she 
was  cleansing  the  side  of  a  cliff,  but  there  was  a  happier  look 
on  the  worn  old  face. 

"Glance  around  and  see  her,"  called  Baird.  "Then  ex- 
plain to  the  girl  that  you  will  always  protect  your  mother, 
no  matter  what  happens.  That's  it.  Now  the  clench — 
kiss  her— slow!  That's  it.  Cut!" 

Merton's  part  in  the  drama  was  ended.  He  knew  that 
the  company  worked  in  the  hills  another  week  and  there  were 
more  close-ups  to  take  in  the  dance-hall,  but  he  was  not  needed 
in  these.  Baird  congratulated  him  warmly. 

"Fine  work,  my  boy!  You've  done  your  first  picture, 
and  with  Miss  Montague  as  your  leading  lady  I  feel  that 
you're  going  to  land  ace-high  with  your  public.  Now  all 
you  got  to  do  for  a  couple  of  weeks  is  to  take  it  easy  while 
we  finish  up  some  rough  ends  of  this  piece.  Then  we'll  be 
ready  to  start  on  the  new  one.  It's  pretty  well  doped  out,  and 
there's  a  big  part  in  it  for  you — big  things  to  be  done  in  a 
big  way,  see  what  I  mean?" 

"Well,  I'm  glad  I  suited  you,"  Merton  replied.  "I  tried 
to  give  the  best  that  was  in  me  to  a  sincere  interpretation 
of  that  fine  part.  And  it  was  a  great  surprise  to  me.  I 
never  thought  I'd  be  working  for  you,  Mr.  Baird,  and  of 
course  I  wouldn't  have  been  if  you  had  kept  on  doing  those 
comedies.  I  never  would  have  wanted  to  work  in  one  of 
them." 


248  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"Of  course  not,"  agreed  Baird  cordially.  "I  realized 
that  you  were  a  serious  artist,  and  you  came  in  the  nick  of 
time,  just  when  I  was  wanting  to  be  serious  myself,  to  get 
away  from  that  slap-stick  stuff  into  something  better  and 
finer.  You  came  when  I  needed  you.  And,  look  here, 
Merton,  I  signed  you  on  at  forty  a  week " 

"Yes,  sir:    I  was  glad  to  get  it." 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  give  you  more.  From  the  beginning 
of  the  new  picture  you're  on  the  payroll  at  seventy-five  a 

week.  No,  no,  not  a  word "  as  Merton  would  have 

thanked  him.  "You're  earning  the  money.  And  for  the 
picture  after  that — well,  if  you  keep  on  giving  the  best  that's 
in  you,  it  will  be  a  whole  lot  more.  Now  take  a  good  rest 
till  we're  ready  for  you." 

At  last  he  had  won.  Suffering  and  sacrifice  had  told. 
And  Baird  had  spoken  of  the  Montague  girl  as  his  leading 
lady — quite  as  if  he  were  a  star.  And  seventy-five  dollars  a 
week!  A  sum  Gashwiler  had  made  him  work  five  weeks  for. 
Now  he  had  something  big  to  write  to  his  old  friend,  Tessie 
Kearns.  She  might  spread  the  news  in  Simsbury,  he  thought. 
He  contrived  a  close-up  of  Gashwiler  hearing  it,  of  Mrs. 
Gashwiler  hearing  it,  of  Metta  Judson  hearing  it. 

They  would  all  be  incredulous  until  a  certain  picture  was 
shown  at  the  Bijou  Palace,  a  gripping  drama  of  mother- 
love,  of  a  clean-limbed  young  American  type  wrongfully  ac- 
cused of  a  crime  and  taking  the  burden  of  it  upon  his  own 
shoulders  for  the  sake  of  the  girl  he  had  come  to  love;  of  the 
tense  play  of  elemental  forces  in  the  great  West,  the  regenera- 
tion of  a  shallow  society  girl  when  brought  to  adversity  by 
the  ruin  of  her  old  father;  of  the  lovers  reunited  in  that  West 
they  both  loved. 

And  somehow — this  was  still  a  puzzle — the  very  effective 
weaving  in  and  out  of  the  drama  of  the  world's  most  popular 
screen  idol,  played  so  expertly  by  Clifford  Armytage  who 
looked  enough  like  him  to  be  his  twin  brother. 


OUT  THERE  WHERE  MEN  ARE  MEN      249 

Fresh  from  joyous  moments  in  the  projection  room,  the 
Montague  girl  gazed  at  Baird  across  the  latter's  desk. 
Baird  spoke. 

"Sis,  he's  a  wonder." 

"Jeff,  you're  a  wonder.  How'd  you  ever  keep  him  from 
getting  wise?" 

Baird  shrugged.     "Easy!    We  caught  him  fresh." 

"How'd  you  ever  win  him  to  do  all  those  falls  on  the  trick 
spurs,  and  get  the  close-ups  of  them?  Didn't  he  know  you 
were  shooting?" 

"Oh ! "  Baird  shrugged  again.  "A  little  talk  made  that  all 
jake.  But  what  bothers  me — how's  he  going  to  act  when 
he's  seen  the  picture?" 

The  girl  became  grave.  "I'm  scared  stiff  every  time  I 
think  of  it.  Maybe  he'll  murder  you,  Jeff." 

"Maybe  he'll  murder  both  of  us.     You  got  him  into  it." 

She  did  not  smile,  but  considered  gravely,  absently. 

"There's  something  else  might  happen,"  she  said  at  last. 
"That  boy's  got  at  least  a  couple  of  sides  to  him.  I'd  rather 
he'd  be  crazy  mad  than  be  what  I'm  thinking  of  now,  and 
that's  that  all  this  stuff  might  just  fairly  break  his  heart. 
Think  of  it — to  see  his  fine  honest  acting  turned  into  good 
old  Buckeye  slap-stick!  Can't  you  get  that?  How'd 
you  like  to  think  you  were  playing  Romeo,  and  act  your 
heart  out  at  it,  and  then  find  out  they'd  slipped  in  a  cross-- 
eyed Juliet  in  a  comedy  make-up  on  you?  Well,  you  can 
laugh,  but  maybe  it  won't  be  funny  to  him.  Honest,  Jeff, 
that  kid  gets  me  under  the  ribs  kind  of.  I  hope  he  takes  it 
standing  up,  and  goes  good  and  crazy  mad." 

"I'll  know  what  to  say  to  him  if  he  does  that.  If  he  takes 
it  the  other  way,  lying  down,  I'll  be  too  ashamed  ever  to 
look  him  in  the  eye  again.  Say,  it'll  be  like  going  up  to  a 
friendly  baby  and  soaking  it  with  a  potato  masher  or  some- 
thing." 

"Don't  worry  about  it,  Kid.  Anyway,  it  won't  be  your 
fault  so  much  as  mine.  And  you  think  there's  only  two 
ways  for  him  to  take  it,  mad  or  heart  broken?  Well,  let 


250  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

me  tell  you  something  about  that  lad — he  might  fool  you 
both  ways.  I  don't  know  just  how,  but  I  tell  you  he's  an 
actor,  a  born  one.  What  he  did  is  going  to  get  over  big. 
And  I  never  yet  saw  a  born  actor  that  would  take  applause 
lying  down,  even  if  it  does  come  for  what  he  didn't  know 
he  was  doing.  Maybe  he'll  be  mad — that's  natural  enough. 
But  maybe  he'll  fool  us  both.  So  cheerio,  old  Pippin!  and 
let's  fly  into  the  new  piece.  I'll  play  safe  by  shooting  the 
most  of  that  before  the  other  one  is  released.  And  he'll 
still  be  playing  straight  in  a  serious  heart  drama.  Fancy 
that,  Armand!" 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  NEW  TRAIL 

ONE  genial  morning  a  few  days  later  the  sun  shone  in 
across  the  desk  of  Baird  while  he  talked  to  Merton 
Gill  of  the  new  piece.     It  was  a  sun  of  fairest  prom- 
ise.   Mr.  Gill's  late  work  was  again  lavishly  commended, 
and  confidence  was  expressed  that  he  would  surpass  himself 
in  the  drama  shortly  to  be  produced. 

Mr.  Baird  spoke  in  enthusiastic  terms  of  this,  declaring 
that  if  it  did  not  prove  to  be  a  knock-out — a  clean-up  pic- 
ture— then  he,  Jeff  Baird,  could  safely  be  called  a  Chinaman. 
And  during  the  time  that  would  elapse  before  shooting  on 
the  new  piece  could  begin  he  specified  a  certain  study  in 
which  he  wished  his  actor  to  engage. 

"You've  watched  the  Edgar  Wayne  pictures,  haven't 
you?" 

"Yes,  I've  seen  a  number  of  them." 

"Like  his  work? — that  honest  country-boy-loving-his- 
mother-and-little-sister  stuff,  wearing  overalls  and  tousled 
hair  in  the  first  part,  and  coming  out  in  city  clothes  and 
eight  dollar  neckties  at  the  last,  with  his  hair  slicked  back 
same  as  a  seal?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  like  it.     He's  fine.     He  has  a  great  appeal." 

"Good!  That's  the  kind  of  a  part  you're  going  to  get  in 
this  new  piece.  Lots  of  managers  in  my  place  would  say 
'No — he's  a  capable  young  chap  and  has  plenty  of  talent, 
but  he  lacks  the  experience  to  play  an  Edgar  Wayne  part.' 
That's  what  a  lot  of  these  wisenheimers  would  say.  But 
me — not  so.  I  believe  you  can  get  away  with  this  part,  and 
I'm  going  to  give  you  your  chance." 

251 


252  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you,  Mr.  Baird,  and 
I'll  try  to  give  you  the  very  best  that  is  in  me " 

"I'm  sure  of  that,  my  boy;  you  needn't  tell  me.  But  now 
— what  I  want  you  to  do  while  you  got  this  lay-off  between 
pieces,  chase  out  and  watch  all  the  Edgar  Wayne  pictures 
you  can  find.  There  was  one  up  on  the  Boulevard  last 
week  I'd  like  you  to  watch  half-a-dozen  times.  It  may 
be  at  another  house  down  this  way,  or  it  may  be  out  in  one 
of  the  suburbs.  I'll  have  someone  outside  call  up  and 
find  where  it  is  to-day  and  they'll  let  you  know.  It's  called 
Happy  Homestead  or  something  snappy  like  that,  and  it 
kind  of  suggests  a  layout  for  this  new  piece  of  mine,  see 
what  I  mean?  It'll  suggest  things  to  you. 

"Edgar  and  his  mother  and  little  sister  live  on  this  farm 
and  Edgar  mixes  in  with  a  swell  dame  down  at  the  summer 
hotel,  and  a  villain  tries  to  get  his  old  mother's  farm  and 
another  villain  takes  his  little  sister  off  up  to  the  wicked  city, 
and  Edgar  has  more  trouble  than  would  patch  Hell  a  mile, 
see?  But  it  all  comes  right  in  the  end,  and  the  city  girl 
falls  for  him  when  she  sees  him  in  his  stepping-out  clothes. 

"It's  a  pretty  little  thing,  but  to  my  way  of  thinking  it 
lacks  strength;  not  enough  punch  to  it.  So  we're  sort  of 
building  up  on  that  general  idea,  only  we'll  put  in  the  pep 
that  this  piece  lacked.  If  I  don't  miss  my  guess,  you'll  be 
able  to  show  Wayne  a  few  things  about  serious  acting — 
especially  after  you've  studied  his  methods  a  little  bit  in  this 
piece." 

"Well,  if  you  think  I  can  do  it,"  began  Merton,  then 
broke  off  in  answer  to  a  sudden  thought.  "Will  my  mother 
be  the  same  actress  that  played  it  before,  the  one  that  mopped 
all  the  time?" 

"Yes,  the  same  actress,  but  a  different  sort  of  mother. 
She — she's  more  enterprising;  she's  a  sort  of  chemist,  in  a 
way;  puts  up  preserves  and  jellies  for  the  hotel.  She  never 
touches  a  mop  in  the  whole  piece  and  dresses  neat  from  start 
to  finish." 

"And  does  the  cross-eyed  man  play  in  it?    Sometimes,  in 


A  NEW  TRAIL  253 

scenes  with  him,  I'd  get  the  idea  I  wasn't  really  doing  my 
best." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know."  Baird  waved  a  sympathetic  hand. 
"Poor  old  Jack.  He's  trying  hard  to  do  something  worth 
while,  but  he's  played  in  those  cheap  comedy  things  so  long 
it's  sort  of  hard  for  him  to  get  out  of  it  and  play  serious  stuff, 
if  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Merton. 

"And  he's  been  with  me  so  long  I  kind  of  hate  to  discharge 
him.  You  see,  on  account  of  those  eyes  of  his,  it  would  be 
hard  for  him  to  get  a  job  as  a  serious  actor,  so  I  did  think 
I'd  give  him  another  part  in  this  piece  if  you  didn't  object, 
just  to  sort  of  work  him  into  the  worth-while  things.  He's 
so  eager  for  the  chance.  It  was  quite  pathetic  how  grateful 
he  looked  when  I  told  him  I'd  try  him  once  more  in  one 
of  the  better  and  finer  things.  And  a  promise  is  a  promise." 

"Still,  Merton,  you're  the  man  I  must  suit  in  this  cast; 
if  you  say  the  word  I'll  tell  Jack  he  must  go,  though  I  know 
what  a  blow  it  will  be  to  him " 

"Oh,  no,  Mr.  Baird,"  Merton  interrupted  fervently,  "I 
wouldn't  think  of  such  a  thing.  Let  the  poor  fellow  have  a 
chance  to  learn  something  better  than  the  buffoonery  he's 
been  doing.  I'll  do  everything  I  can  to  help  him.  I  think 
it  is  very  pathetic,  his  wanting  to  do  the  better  things;  it's 
fine  of  him.  And  maybe  some  day  he  could  save  up  enough 
to  have  a  good  surgeon  fix  his  eyes  right.  It  might  be 
done,  you  know." 

"Now  that's  nice  of  you,  my  boy.  It's  kind  and  generous. 
Not  eyery  actor  of  your  talent  would  want  Jack  working  in 
the  same  scene  with  him.  And  perhaps,  as  you  say,  some 
day  he  can  save  up  enough  from  his  wages  to  have  his  eyes 
fixed.  I'll  mention  it  to  him.  And  this  reminds  me, 
speaking  of  the  cast,  there's  another  member  who  might 
bother  some  of  these  fussy  actors.  She's  the  girl  who  will 
take  the  part  of  your  city  sweetheart.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
she  isn't  exactly  the  type  I'd  have  picked  for  the  part, 
because  she's  rather  a  large,  hearty  girl,  if  you  know  what 


254  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

I  mean.  I  could  have  found  a  lot  who  were  better  lookers; 
but  the  poor  thing  has  a  bedridden  father  and  mother  and 
a  little  crippled  brother  and  a  little  sister  that  isn't  well,  and 
she's  working  hard  to  send  them  all  to  school — I  mean  the 
children,  not  her  parents;  so  I  saw  the  chance  to  do  her  a 
good  turn,  and  I  hope  you'll  feel  that  you  can  work  har- 
moniously with  her.  I  know  I'm  too  darned  human  to  be 

in  this  business "  Baird  looked  aside  to  conceal  his 

emotion. 

"I'm  sure,  Mr.  Baird,  I'll  get  along  fine  with  the  young 
lady,  and  I  think  it's  fine  of  you  to  give  these  people  jobs 
when  you  could  get  better  folks  in  their  places." 

"Well,  well,  we'll  say  no  more  about  that,"  replied  Baird 
gruffly,  as  one  who  had  again  hidden  his  too-impressionable 
heart.  "Now  ask  in  the  outer  office  where  that  Wayne 
film  is  to-day  and  catch  it  as  often  as  you  feel  you're  getting 
any  of  the  Edgar  Wayne  stuff.  We'll  call  you  up  when 
work  begins." 

He  saw  the  Edgar  Wayne  film,  a  touching  story  in  which 
the  timid,  diffident  country  boy  triumphed  over  difficulties 
and  won  the  love  of  a  pure  New  York  society  girl,  meantime 
protecting  his  mother  from  the  insulting  sneers  of  the  idle 
rich  and  being  made  to  suffer  intensely  by  the  apparent 
moral  wreck  of  his  dear  little  sister  whom  a  rich  scoundrel 
lured  to  the  great  city  with  false  promises  that  he  would 
make  a  fine  lady  of  her.  Never  before  had  he  studied  the 
acting  method  of  Wayne  with  a  definite  aim  in  view.  Now 
he  watched  until  he  himself  became  the  awkward  country 
boy.  He  was  primed  with  the  Wayne  manner,  the  appeal- 
ing ingenuousness,  the  simple  embarrassments,  the  manly 
regard  for  the  old  mother,  when  word  came  that  Baird  was 
ready  for  him  in  the  new  piece. 

This  drama  was  strikingly  like  the  Wayne  piece  he  had 
watched,  at  least  in  its  beginning.  Baird,  in  his  striving 
for  the  better  things,  seemed  at  first  to  have  copied  his 
model  almost  too  faithfully.  Not  only  was  Merton  to  be 
the  awkward  country  boy  in  the  little  hillside  farmhouse, 


A  NEW  TRAIL  255 

but  his  mother  and  sister  were  like  the  other  mother  and 
sister. 

Still,  he  began  to  observe  differences.  The  little  sister — 
played  by  the  Montague  girl — was  a  simple  farm  maiden  as 
in  the  other  piece,  but  the  mother  was  more  energetic.  She 
had  silvery  hair  and  wore  a  neat  black  dress,  with  a  white 
lace  collar  and  a  cameo  brooch  at  her  neck,  and  she  em- 
braced her  son  tearfully  at  frequent  intervals,  as  had  the 
other  mother;  but  she  carried  on  in  her  kitchen  an  active 
business  in  canning  fruits  and  putting  up  jellies,  which,  sold 
to  the  rich  people  at  the  hotel,  would  swell  the  little  fund 
that  must  be  saved  to  pay  the  mortgage.  Also,  in  the  pres- 
ent piece,  the  country  boy  was  to  become  a  great  inventor, 
and  this  was  different.  Merton  felt  that  this  was  a  good 
touch;  it  gave  him  dignity. 

He  appeared  ready  for  work  on  the  morning  designated. 
He  was  now  able  to  make  up  himself,  and  he  dressed  in  the 
country-boy  costume  that  had  been  provided.  It  was  per- 
haps not  so  attractive  a  costume  as  Edgar  Wayne  had  worn, 
consisting  of  loose-fitting  overalls  that  came  well  above  his 
waist  and  were  fastened  by  straps  that  went  over  the  shoul- 
ders; but,  as  Baird  remarked,  the  contrast  would  be  greater 
when  he  dressed  in  rich  city  clothes  at  the  last.  His  hair, 
too,  was  no  longer  the  slicked-back  hair  of  Parmalee,  but 
tousled  in  country  disorder. 

For  much  of  the  action  of  the  new  piece  they  would  require 
an  outside  location,  but  there  were  some  interiors  to  be  shot 
on  the  lot.  He  forgot  the  ill-fitting  overalls  when  shown 
his  attic  laboratory  where,  as  an  ambitious  young  inventor, 
sustained  by  the  unfaltering  trust  of  mother  and  sister,  he 
would  perfect  certain  mechanical  devices  that  would  bring 
him  fame,  fortune,  and  the  love  of  a  pure  New  York  society 
girl.  It  was  a  humble  little  room  containing  a  work-bench 
that  held  his  tools  and  a  table  littered  with  drawings  over 
which  he  bent  until  late  hours  of  the  night. 

At  this  table,  simple,  unaffected,  deeply  earnest,  he  was 
shown  as  the  dreaming  young  inventor,  perplexed  at  mo- 


256  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

ments,  then,  with  brightening  eyes,  making  some  needful 
change  in  the  drawings.  He  felt  in  these  scenes  that  he  was 
revealing  a  world  of  personality.  And  he  must  struggle  to 
give  a  sincere  interpretation  in  later  scenes  that  would  re- 
quire more  action.  He  would  show  Baird  that  he  had  not 
watched  Edgar  Wayne  without  profit. 

Another  interior  was  of  the  neat  living  room  of  the  humble 
home.  Here  were  scenes  of  happy  family  life  with  the  little 
sister  and  the  fond  old  mother.  The  Montague  girl  was  a 
charming  picture  in  her  simple  print  dress  and  sunbonnet 
beneath  which  hung  her  braid  of  golden  hair.  The  mother 
was  a  sweet  old  dear,  dressed  as  Baird  had  promised.  She 
early  confided  to  Merton  that  she  was  glad  her  part  was  not 
to  be  a  mopping  part.  In  that  case  she  would  have  had  to 
wear  knee-pads,  whereas  now  she  was  merely,  she  said,  to 
be  a  tired  business  woman. 

Still  another  interior  was  of  her  kitchen  where  she  busily 
carried  on  her  fruit-canning  activities.  Pots  boiled  on  the 
stove  and  glass  jars  were  filled  with  her  product.  One  of 
the  pots,  Merton  noticed,  the  largest,  had  a  tightly  closed 
top  from  which  a  slender  tube  of  copper  went  across  one 
corner  of  the  little  room  to  where  it  coiled  in  a  bucket  filled 
with  water,  whence  it  discharged  its  contents  into  bottles. 

This,  it  seemed,  was  his  mother's  improved  grape  juice, 
a  cooling  drink  to  tempt  the  jaded  palates  of  the  city  folks 
up  at  the  big  hotel. 

The  laboratory  of  the  young  inventor  was  abundantly 
filmed  while  the  earnest  country  boy  dreamed  hopefully 
above  his  drawings  or  tinkered  at  metal  devices  on  the 
work-bench.  The  kitchen  in  which  his  mother  toiled  was 
repeatedly  shot,  including  close-ups  of  the  old  mother's  in- 
genious contrivances — especially  of  the  closed  boiler  with  its 
coil  of  copper  tubing — by  which  she  was  helping  to  save  the 
humble  home. 

And  a  scene  in  the  neat  living  room  with  its  old-fashioned 
furniture  made  it  all  too  clear  that  every  effort  would  be 
required  to  save  the  little  home.  The  cruel  money-lender, 


A  NEW  TRAIL  257 

a  lawyer  with  mean-looking  whiskers,  confronted  the  three 
shrinking  inmates  to  warn  them  that  he  must  have  his  money 
by  a  certain  day  or  out  they  would  go  into  the  streets.  The 
old  mother  wept  at  this,  and  the  earnest  boy  took  her  in  his 
arms.  The  little  sister,  terrified  by  the  man's  rough  words, 
also  flew  to  this  shelter,  and  thus  he  defied  the  intruder,  calm, 
fearless,  dignified.  The  money  would  be  paid  and  the  in- 
truder would  now  please  remember  that,  until  the  day  named, 
this  little  home  was  their  very  own. 

The  scoundrel  left  with  a  final  menacing  wave  of  his 
gnarled  hand;  left  the  group  facing  ruin  unless  the  invention 
could  be  perfected,  unless  Mother  could  sell  an  extraordinary 
quantity  of  fruit  or  improved  grape  juice  to  the  city  folks,  or, 
indeed,  unless  the  little  sister  could  do  something  wonderful. 

She,  it  now  seemed,  was  confident  she  also  could  help. 
She  stood  apart  from  them  and  prettily  promised  to  do  some- 
thing wonderful.  She  asked  them  to  remember  that  she  was 
no  longer  a  mere  girl,  but  a  woman  with  a  woman's  deter- 
mination. They  both  patted  the  little  thing  encouragingly 
on  the  back. 

The  interiors  possible  on  the  Holden  lot  having  been 
finished,  they  motored  each  day  to  a  remote  edge  of  the  city 
where  outside  locations  had  been  found  for  the  humble  farm- 
house and  the  grand  hotel.  The  farmhouse  was  excellently 
chosen,  Merton  thought,  being  the  neat,  unpretentious  abode 
of  honest,  hard-working  people;  but  the  hotel,  some  distance 
off,  was  not  so  grand,  he  thought,  as  Baird's  new  play  seemed 
to  demand.  It  was  plainly  a  hotel,  a  wooden  structure  with 
balconies;  but  it  seemed  hardly  to  afford  those  attractions 
that  would  draw  the  wealthier  element  from  New  York. 
He  forebore  to  warn  Baird  of  this,  however,  fearing  to  dis- 
courage a  manager  who  was  honestly  striving  for  the  serious 
in  photodrama. 

His  first  exterior  scene  saw  him,  with  the  help  of  Mother 
and  little  sister,  loading  the  one  poor  motor  car  which  the 
family  possessed  with  Mother's  products.  These  were  then 
driven  to  the  hotel.  The  Montague  girl  drove  the  car,  and 


258  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

scenes  of  it  in  motion  were  shot  from  a  car  that  preceded 
them. 

They  arrived  before  the  hotel;  Merton  was  directed  to 
take  from  the  car  an  iron  weight  attached  to  a  rope  and 
running  to  a  connection  forward  on  the  hood.  He  was  to 
throw  the  weight  to  the  ground,  plainly  with  the  notion  that 
he  would  thus  prevent  the  car  from  running  away.  The 
simple  device  was,  in  fact,  similar  to  that  used,  at  Gash- 
wiler's  strict  orders,  on  the  delivery  wagon  back  in  Simsbury, 
for  Gashwiler  had  believed  that  Dexter  would  run  away  if 
untethered.  But  of  course  it  was  absurd,  Merton  saw,  to 
anchor  a  motor  car  in  such  a  manner,  and  he  was  somewhat 
taken  aback  when  Baird  directed  this  action. 

"It's  all  right,"  Baird  assured  him.  "You're  a  simple 
country  boy,  and  don't  know  any  better,  so  do  it  plumb 
serious.  You'll  be  smart  enough  before  the  show's  over.  Go 
ahead,  get  out,  grab  the  weight,  throw  it  down,  and  don't 
look  at  it  again,  as  if  you  did  this  every  time.  That's  it. 
You're  not  being  funny;  just  a  simple  country  boy  like 
Wayne  was  at  first."  He  performed  the  action,  still  with 
some  slight  misgiving. 

Followed  scenes  of  brother  and  sister  offering  Mother's 
wares  to  the  city  folks  idling  on  the  porch  of  the  hotel.  Each 
bearing  a  basket  they  were  caught  submitting  the  jellies  and 
jams.  The  brother  was  laughed  at,  even  sneered  at,  by  the 
supercilious  rich,  the  handsomely  gowned  women  and  the 
dissipated  looking  men.  No  one  appeared  to  wish  his  jellies. 

The  little  sister  had  better  luck.  The  women  turned  from 
her,  but  the  men  gathered  about  her  and  quickly  bought  out 
the  stock.  She  went  to  the  car  for  more  and  the  men  followed 
her.  To  Merton,  who  watched  these  scenes,  the  dramatist's 
intention  was  plain.  These  men  did  not  really  care  for 
jellies  and  jams,  they  were  attracted  solely  by  the  wild-rose 
beauty  of  the  little  country  girl.  And  they  were  plainly  the 
sort  of  men  whose  attentions  could  mean  no  good  to  such 
as  she. 

Left  on  the  porch,  he  was  now  directed  to  approach  a  dis- 


A  NEW  TRAIL  259 

tinguished  looking  old  gentleman,  probably  a  banker  and  a 
power  in  Wall  Street,  who  read  his  morning  papers.  Timidly 
he  stood  before  this  person,  thrusting  forward  his  basket. 
The  old  gentleman  glanced  up  in  annoyance  and  brutally 
rebuffed  the  country  boy  with  an  angry  flourish  of  the 
paper  he  read. 

"You're  hurt  by  this  treatment,"  called  Baird,  "and 
almost  discouraged.  You  look  back  over  your  shoulder  to 
where  sister  is  doing  a  good  business  with  her  stuff,  and  you 
see  the  old  mother  back  in  her  kitchen,  working  her  fingers 
to  the  bone — we'll  have  a  flash  of  that,  see? — and  you  try 
again.  Take  out  that  bottle  in  the  corner  of  the  basket, 
uncork  it,  and  try  again.  The  old  man  looks  up — he's 
smelled  something.  You  hold  the  bottle  toward  him  and 
you're  saying  so-and-so,  so-and-so,  so-and-so,  'Oh,  Mister,  if 
you  knew  how  hard  my  poor  old  mother  works  to  make  this 
stuff!  Won't  you  please  take  a  little  taste  of  her  improved 
grape  juice  and  see  if  you  don't  want  to  buy  a  few  shillings' 
worth* — so-and-so,  so-and-so,  so-and-so — see  what  I  mean? 
That's  it,  look  pleading.  Think  how  the  little  home  de- 
pends on  it." 

The  old  gentleman,  first  so  rude,  consented  to  taste  the 
improved  grape  juice.  He  put  the  bottle  to  his  lips  and 
tilted  it.  A  camera  was  brought  up  to  record  closely  the  look 
of  pleased  astonishment  that  enlivened  his  face.  He  arose 
to  his  feet,  tilted  the  bottle  again,  this  time  drinking  abund- 
antly. He  smacked  his  lips  with  relish,  glanced  furtively 
at  the  group  of  women  in  the  background,  caught  the  country 
boy  by  a  sleeve  and  drew  him  farther  along  the  porch. 

"He's  telling  you  what  fine  stuff  this  grape  juice  is,"  ex- 
plained Baird;  "saying  that  your  mother  must  be  a  wonder- 
ful old  lady,  and  he'll  drop  over  to  meet  her;  and  in  the 
meantime  he  wants  you  to  bring  him  all  this  grape  juice  she 
has.  He'll  take  it;  she  can  name  her  own  price.  He  hands 
you  a  ten  dollar  bill  for  the  bottle  he  has  and  for  another  in 
the  basket — that's  it,  give  it  to  him.  The  rest  of  the  bottles 
are  jams  or  something.  You  want  him  to  take  them,  but 


260  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

he  pushes  them  back.  He's  saying  he  wants  the  improved 
grape  juice  or  nothing.  He  shows  a  big  wad  of  bills  to  show 
he  can  pay  for  it.  You  look  glad  now — the  little  home  may 
be  saved  after  all." 

The  scene  was  shot.  Merton  felt  that  he  carried  it 
acceptably.  He  had  shown  the  diffident  pleading  of  the 
country  boy  that  his  mother's  product  should  be  at  least 
tasted,  his  frank  rejoicing  when  the  old  gentleman  approved 
of  it.  He  was  not  so  well  satisfied  with  the  work  of  the 
Montague  girl  as  his  innocent  little  sister.  In  her  sale  of 
Mother's  jellies  to  the  city  men,  in  her  acceptance  of  their 
attentions,  she  appeared  to  be  just  the  least  bit  bold.  It 
seemed  almost  as  if  she  wished  to  attract  their  notice.  He 
hesitated  to  admit  it,  for  he  profoundly  esteemed  the  girl, 
but  there  were  even  moments  when,  in  technical  language, 
she  actually  seemed  to  "  vamp  "  these  creatures  who  thronged 
about  her  to  profess  for  her  jams  and  jellies  an  interest  he 
was  sure  they  did  not  feel. 

He  wondered  if  Baird  had  made  it  plain  to  her  that  she 
was  a  very  innocent  little  country  girl  who  should  be  un- 
pleasantly affected  by  these  advances.  The  scene  he  watched 
shot  where  the  little  sister  climbed  back  into  the  motor  car, 
leered  at  by  the  four  New  York  club-men,  he  thought  es- 
pecially distasteful.  Surely  the  skirt  of  her  print  dress 
was  already  short  enough.  She  needed  not  to  lift  it  under 
this  evil  regard  as  she  put  her  foot  up  to  the  step. 

It  was  on  the  porch  of  the  hotel,  too,  that  he  was  to  have 
his  first  scene  with  the  New  York  society  girl  whose  hand 
he  won.  She  proved  to  be  the  daughter  of  the  old  gentle- 
man who  liked  the  improved  grape  juice.  As  Baird  had 
intimated,  she  was  a  large  girl;  not  only  tall  and  stoutly 
built,  but  somewhat  heavy  of  face.  Baird's  heart  must 
have  been  touched  indeed  when  he  consented  to  employ 
her,  but  Merton  remembered  her  bedridden  father  and 
mother,  the  little  crippled  brother,  the  little  sister  who  was 
also  in  poor  health,  and  resolved  to  make  their  scenes  to- 
gether as  easy  for  her  as  he  could. 


A  NEW  TRAIL  261 

At  their  first  encounter  she  appeared  in  a  mannish  coat 
and  riding  breeches,  though  she  looked  every  inch  a  woman 
in  this  attire. 

"She  sees  you,  and  it's  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight  on  her 
part,"  explained  Baird.  "And  you  love  her,  too,  only 
you're  a  bashful  country  boy  and  can't  show  it  the  way  she 
can.  Try  out  a  little  first  scene  now." 

Merton  stood,  his  basket  on  his  arm,  as  the  girl  approached 
him.  "Look  down,"  called  Baird,  and  Merton  lowered  his 
gaze  under  the  ardent  regard  of  the  social  butterfly.  She 
tossed  away  her  cigarette  and  came  nearer.  Then  she 
mischievously  pinched  his  cheek  as  the  New  York  men  had 
pinched  his  little  sister's.  Having  done  this,  she  placed  her 
hand  beneath  his  chin  and  raised  his  face  to  hers. 

"Now  look  up  at  her,"  called  Baird.  "But  she  frightens 
you.  Remember  your  country  raising.  You  never  saw 
a  society  girl  before.  That's  it — look  frightened  while 
she's  admiring  you  in  that  bold  way.  Now  turn  a  little  and 
look  down  again.  Pinch  his  cheek  once  more,  Lulu.  Now, 
Merton,  look  up  and  smile,  but  kind  of  scared — you're  still 
afraid  of  her — and  offer  her  a  bottle  of  Ma's  preserves. 
Step  back  a  little  as  you  do  it,  because  you're  kind  of  afraid 
of  what  she  might  do  next.  That's  fine.  Good  work,  both 
of  you." 

He  was  glad  for  the  girl's  sake  that  Baird  had  approved  the 
work  of  both.  He  had  been  afraid  she  was  overdoing  the 
New  York  society  manner  in  the  boldness  of  her  advances 
to  him,  but  of  course  Baird  would  know. 

His  conscience  hurt  him  a  little  when  the  Montague  girl 
added  her  praise  to  Baird 's  for  his  own  work.  "Kid,  you 
certainly  stepped  neat  and  looked  nice  in  that  love  scene," 
she  warmly  told  him.  He  would  have  liked  to  praise  her  own 
work,  but  could  not  bring  himself  to.  Perhaps  she  would 
grow  more  shrinking  and  modest  as  the  drama  progressed. 

A  part  of  the  play  now  developed  as  he  had  foreseen  it 
would,  in  that  the  city  men  at  the  hotel  pursued  the  little 
sister  to  her  own  door-step  with  attentions  that  she  should 


262  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

have  found  unwelcome.  But  even  now  she  behaved  in  a 
way  he  could  not  approve.  She  seemed  determined  to 
meet  the  city  men  halfway.  "I'm  to  be  the  sunlight  arc 
of  this  hovel,"  she  announced  when  the  city  men  came, 
one  at  a  time,  to  shower  gifts  upon  the  little  wild  rose. 

Later  it  became  apparent  that  she  must  in  the  end  pay 
dearly  for  her  too-ready  acceptance  of  these  favours.  One 
after  another  the  four  city  men,  whose  very  appearance 
would  have  been  sufficient  warning  to  most  girls,  endeavoured 
to  lure  her  up  to  the  great  city  where  they  promised  to  make 
a  lady  of  her.  It  was  a  situation  notoriously  involving 
danger  to  the  simple  country  girl,  yet  not  even  her  mother 
frowned  upon  it. 

The  mother,  indeed,  frankly  urged  the  child  to  let  all 
of  these  kind  gentlemen  make  a  lady  of  her.  The  brother 
should  have  warned  her  in  this  extremity;  but  the  brother 
was  not  permitted  any  share  in  these  scenes.  Only  Merton 
Gill,  in  his  proper  person,  seemed  to  feel  the  little  girl  was 
all  too  cordially  inviting  trouble. 

He  became  confused,  ultimately,  by  reason  of  the  scenes 
not  being  taken  consecutively.  It  appeared  that  the  little 
sister  actually  left  her  humble  home  at  the  insistence  of  one 
of  the  villains,  yet  she  did  not,  apparently,  creep  back 
months  later  broken  in  body  and  soul.  As  nearly  as  he 
could  gather,  she  was  back  the  next  day.  And  it  almost 
seemed  as  if  later,  at  brief  intervals,  she  allowed  herself  to 
start  for  the  great  city  with  each  of  the  other  three  scoun- 
drels who  were  bent  upon  her  destruction.  But  always  she 
appeared  to  return  safely  and  to  bring  large  sums  of  money 
with  which  to  delight  the  old  mother. 

It  was  puzzling  to  Merton.  He  decided  at  last — he  did 
not  like  to  ask  the  Montague  girl — that  Baird  had  tried  the 
same  scene  four  times,  and  would  choose  the  best  of  these 
for  his  drama. 

Brother  and  sister  made  further  trips  to  the  hotel  with 
their  offerings,  only  the  sister  now  took  jams  and  jellies 
exclusively,  which  she  sold  to  the  male  guests,  while  the 


A  NEW  TRAIL  263 

brother  took  only  the  improved  grape  juice  which  the  rich 
old  New  Yorker  bought  and  generously  paid  for. 

There  were  other  scenes  at  the  hotel  between  the  country 
boy  and  the  heavy-faced  New  York  society  girl,  in  which 
the  latter  was  an  ardent  wooer.  Once  she  was  made  to 
snatch  a  kiss  from  him  as  he  stood  by  her,  his  basket  on  his 
arm.  He  strugg'ed  in  her  embrace,  then  turned  to  flee. 
She  was  shown  looking  after  him,  laughing,  carelessly 
slapping  one  leg  with  her  riding  crop. 

"You're  still  timid,"  Baird  told  him.  "You  can  hardly 
believe  you  have  won  her  love." 

In  some  following  scenes  at  the  little  farmhouse  it  be- 
came impossible  for  him  longer  to  doubt  this,  for  the  girl 
frankly  told  her  love  as  she  lingered  with  him  at  the 
gate. 

"She's  one  of  these  new  women,"  said  Baird.  "She's 
living  her  own  life.  You  listen — it's  wonderful  that  this 
great  love  should  have  come  to  you.  Let  us  see  the  great 
joy  dawning  in  your  eyes." 

He  endeavoured  to  show  this.  The  New  York  girl  became 
more  ardent.  She  put  an  arm  about  him,  drew  him  to  her. 
Slowly,  almost  in  the  manner  of  Harold  Parmalee,  as  it 
seemed  to  him,  she  bent  down  and  imprinted  a  long  kiss  upon 
his  lips.  He  had  been  somewhat  difficult  to  rehearse  in  this 
scene,  but  Baird  made  it  all  plain.  He  was  still  the  bashful 
country  boy,  though  now  he  would  be  awakened  by  love. 
The  girl  drew  him  from  the  gate  to  her  waiting  automobile. 
Here  she  overcame  a  last  reluctance  and  induced  him  to 
enter.  She  followed  and  drove  rapidly  off. 

It  was  only  now  that  Baird  let  him  into  the  very  heart  of 
the  drama. 

"You  see,"  he  told  Merton,  "you've  watched  these  city 
folks;  you've  wanted  city  life  and  fine  clothes  for  yourself; 
so,  in  a  moment  of  weakness,  you've  gone  up  to  town  with 
this  girl  to  have  a  look  at  the  place,  and  it  sort  of  took  hold 
of  you.  In  fact,  you  hit  up  quite  a  pace  for  awhile;  but  at 
last  you  go  stale  on  it " 


264  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"The  blight  of  Broadway,"  suggested  Merton,  wonder- 
ing if  there  could  be  a  cabaret  scene. 

"Exactly,"  said  Baird.  "And  you  get  to  thinking  of  the 
poor  old  mother  and  little  sister  back  here  at  home,  working 
away  to  pay  off  the  mortgage,  and  you  decide  to  come  back. 
You  get  back  on  a  stormy  night;  lots  of  snow  and  wind;  you're 
pretty  weak.  We'll  show  you  sort  of  fainting  as  you  reach 
the  door.  You  have  no  overcoat  nor  hat,  and  your  city 
suit  is  practically  ruined.  You  got  a  great  chance  for  some 
good  acting  here,  especially  after  you  get  inside  to  face  the 
folks.  It'll  be  the  strongest  thing  you've  done,  so  far." 

It  was  indeed  an  opportunity  for  strong  acting.  He 
could  see  that.  He  stayed  late  with  Baird  and  his  staff  one 
night  and  a  scene  of  the  prodigal's  return  to  the  door  of  the 
little  home  was  shot  in  a  blinding  snow-storm.  Baird  warmly 
congratulated  the  mechanics  who  contrived  the  storm,  and 
was  enthusiastic  over  the  acting  of  the  hero.  Through  the 
wintry  blast  he  staggered,  half  falling,  to  reach  the  door 
where  he  collapsed.  The  light  caught  the  agony  on  his 
pale  face.  He  lay  a  moment,  half -fainting,  then  reached  up 
a  feeble  hand  to  the  knob  of  the  door. 

It  was  one  of  the  annoyances  incident  to  screen  art  that 
he  could  not  go  in  at  that  moment  to  finish  his  great  scene. 
But  this  must  be  done  back  on  the  lot,  and  the  scene  could 
not  be  secured  until  the  next  day. 

Once  more  he  became  the  pitiful  victim  of  a  great  city, 
crawling  back  to  the  home  shelter  on  a  wintry  night.  It 
was  Christmas  eve,  he  now  learned.  He  pushed  open  the 
door  of  the  little  home  and  staggered  in  to  face  his  old  mother 
and  the  little  sister.  They  sprang  forward  at  his  entrance; 
the  sister  ran  to  support  him  to  the  homely  old  sofa.  He 
was  weak,  emaciated,  his  face  an  agony  of  repentance,  as  he 
mutely  pled  forgiveness  for  his  flight. 

His  old  mother  had  risen,  had  seemed  about  to  embrace 
him  fondly  when  he  knelt  at  her  feet,  but  then  had  drawn 
herself  sternly  up  and  pointed  commandingly  to  the  door. 
The  prodigal,  anguished  anew  at  this  repulse,  fell  weakly 


A  NEW  TRAIL  265 

back  upon  the  couch  with  a  cry  of  despair.  The  little 
sister  placed  a  pillow  under  his  head  and  ran  to  plead  with 
the  mother.  A  long  time  she  remained  obdurate,  but  at 
last  relented.  Then  she,  too,  came  to  fall  upon  her  knees 
before  the  wreck  who  had  returned  to  her. 

Not  many  rehearsals  were  required  for  this  scene,  difficult 
though  it  was.  Merton  Gill  had  seized  his  opportunity. 
His  study  of  agony  expressions  in  the  film  course  was  here 
rewarded.  The  scene  closed  with  the  departure  of  the  little 
sister.  Resolutely,  showing  the  light  of  some  fierce  deter- 
mination, she  put  on  hat  and  wraps,  spoke  words  of  promise 
to  the  stricken  mother  and  son,  and  darted  out  into  the  night. 
The  snow  whirled  in  as  she  opened  the  door. 

"Good  work,"  said  Baird  to  Merton.  "If  you  don't  hear 
from  that  little  bit  you  can  call  me  a  Swede." 

Some  later  scenes  were  shot  in  the  same  little  home,  which 
seemed  to  bring  the  drama  to  a  close.  While  the  returned 
prodigal  lay  on  the  couch,  nursed  by  the  forgiving  mother,  the 
sister  returned  in  company  with  the  New  York  society  girl 
who  seemed  aghast  at  the  wreck  of  him  she  had  once  wooed. 
Slowly  she  approached  the  couch  of  the  sufferer,  tenderly  she 
reached  down  to  enfold  him.  In  some  manner,  which  Merton 
could  not  divine,  the  lovers  had  been  reunited. 

The  New  York  girl  was  followed  by  her  father — it  would 
seem  they  had  both  corne  from  the  hotel — and  the  father, 
after  giving  an  order  for  more  of  Mother's  grape  juice,  ex- 
amined the  son's  patents.  Two  of  them  he  exclaimed  with 
delight  over,  and  at  once  paid  the  boy  a  huge  roll  of  bills  for 
a  tenth  interest  in  them. 

Now  came  the  grasping  man  who  held  the  mortgage  and 
who  had  counted  upon  driving  the  family  into  the  streets 
this  stormy  Christmas  eve.  He  was  overwhelmed  with 
confusion  when  his  money  was  paid  from  an  ample  hoard, 
and  slunk,  shame-faced,  out  into  the  night.  It  could  be 
seen  that  Christmas  day  would  dawn  bright  and  happy 
for  the  little  group. 

To  Merton 's  eye  there  was  but  one  discord  in  this  finale. 


266  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

He  had  known  that  the  cross-eyed  man  was  playing  the  part 
of  hotel  clerk  at  the  neighbouring  resort,  but  he  had  watched 
few  scenes  in  which  the  poor  fellow  acted;  and  he  surely  had 
not  known  that  this  man  was  the  little  sister's  future  hus- 
band. It  was  with  real  dismay  that  he  averted  his  gaze 
from  the  embrace  that  occurred  between  these  two,  as  the 
clerk  entered  the  now  happy  home. 

One  other  detail  had  puzzled  him.  This  was  the  bundle 
to  which  he  had  clung  as  he  blindly  plunged  through  the 
storm.  He  had  still  fiercely  clutched  it  after  entering  the 
little  room,  clasping  it  to  his  breast  even  as  he  sank  at  his 
mother's  feet  in  physical  exhaustion  and  mental  anguish, 
to  implore  her  forgiveness.  Later  the  bundle  was  placed 
beside  him  as  he  lay,  pale  and  wan,  on  the  couch. 

He  supposed  this  bundle  to  contain  one  of  his  patents; 
a  question  to  Baird  when  the  scene  was  over  proved  him 
to  be  correct.  "Sure,"  said  Baird,  "that's  one  of  your 
patents."  Yet  he  still  wished  the  little  sister  had  not 
been  made  to  marry  the  cross-eyed  hotel  clerk. 

And  another  detail  lingered  in  his  memory  to  bother  him. 
The  actress  playing  his  mother  was  wont  to  smoke  cigarettes 
when  not  engaged  in  acting.  He  had  long  known  it.  But 
he  now  seemed  to  recall,  in  that  touching  last  scene  of 
reconciliation,  that  she  had  smoked  one  while  the  camera 
actually  turned.  He  hoped  this  was  not  so.  It  would 
mean  a  mistake.  And  Baird  would  be  justly  annoyed  by 
the  old  mother's  carelessness. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

OF  SARAH  NEVADA  MONTAGUE 

THEY  were  six  long  weeks  doing  the  new  piece.    The 
weeks   seemed   long  to  Merton    Gill    because    there 
were  so  many  hours,  even  days,  of  enforced  idleness. 
To  pass  an  entire  day,  his  face  stiff  with  the  make-up, 
without  once  confronting  a  camera  in  action,  seemed  to  him 
a  waste  of  his  own  time  and  a  waste  of  Baird's  money. 
Yet  this  appeared  to  be  one  of  the  unavoidable  penalties 
incurred  by  those  who  engaged  in  the  art  of  photodrama. 
Time  was  needed  to  create  that  world  of  painted  shadows, 
so  swift,  so  nicely  consecutive  when  revealed,  but  so  in- 
coherent, so  brokenly  inconsequent,  so  meaningless  in  the 
recording. 

How  little  an  audience  could  suspect  the  vexatious  delays 
ensuing  between,  say,  a  knock  at  a  door  and  the  admission 
of  a  visitor  to  a  neat  little  home  where  a  fond  old  mother 
was  trying  to  pay  off  a  mortgage  with  the  help  of  her  little 
ones.  How  could  an  audience  divine  that  a  wait  of  two 
hours  had  been  caused  because  a  polished  city  villain  had 
forgotten  his  spats?  Or  that  other  long  waits  had  been 
caused  by  other  forgotten  trifles,  while  an  expensive  com- 
pany of  artists  lounged  about  in  bored  apathy,  or  smoked, 
gossiped,  bantered? 

Yet  no  one  ever  seemed  to  express  concern  about  these 
waits.  Rarely  were  their  causes  known,  except  by  some 
frenzied  assistant  director,  and  he,  after  a  little,  would 
cease  to  be  frenzied  and  fall  to  loafing  calmly  with  the 
others.  Merton  Gill's  education  in  his  chosen  art  was 
progressing.  He  came  to  loaf  with  the  unconcern,  the 

267 


268  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

vacuous  boredom,  the  practised  nonchalance,  of  more 
seasoned  artists. 

Sometimes  when  exteriors  were  being  taken  the  sky  would 
overcloud  and  the  sun  be  denied  them  for  a  whole  day. 
The  Montague  girl  would  then  ask  Merton  how  he  liked 
Sunny  Cafeteria.  He  knew  this  was  a  jesting  term  that 
would  stand  for  sunny  California,  and  never  failed  to  laugh. 

The  girl  kept  rather  closely  by  him  during  these  periods 
of  waiting.  She  seemed  to  show  little  interest  in  other 
members  of  the  company,  and  her  association  with  them, 
Merton  noted,  was  marked  by  a  certain  restraint.  With 
them  she  seemed  no  longer  to  be  the  girl  of  free  ways  and 
speech.  She  might  occasionally  join  a  group  of  the  men 
who  indulged  in  athletic  sports  on  the  grass  before  the  little 
farmhouse — for  the  actors  of  Mr.  Baird's  company  would 
all  betray  acrobatic  tendencies  in  their  idle  moments — 
and  he  watched  one  day  while  the  simple  little  country 
sister  turned  a  series  of  hand-springs  and  cart-wheels  that 
evoked  sincere  applause  from  the  four  New  York  villains 
who  had  been  thus  solacing  their  ennui. 

But  oftener  she  would  sit  with  Merton  on  the  back  seat 
of  one  of  the  waiting  automobiles.  She  not  only  kept  her- 
self rather  aloof  from  other  members  of  the  company, 
but  she  curiously  seemed  to  bring  it  about  that  Merton 
himself  would  have  little  contact  with  them.  Especially 
did  she  seem  to  hover  between  him  and  the  company's 
feminine  members.  Among  those  impersonating  guests 
at  the  hotel  were  several  young  women  of  rare  beauty  with 
whom  he  would  have  been  not  unwilling  to  fraternize  in 
that  easy  comradeship  which  seemed  to  mark  studio  life. 
These  were  far  more  alluring  than  the  New  York  society 
girl  who  wooed  him  and  who  had  secured  the  part  solely 
through  Baird's  sympathy  for  her  family  misfortunes. 

They  were  richly  arrayed  and  charmingly  mannered  in 
the  scenes  he  watched;  moreover,  they  not  too  subtly  be- 
trayed a  pleasant  consciousness  of  Merton's  existence. 
But  the  Montague  girl  noticeably  monopolized  him  when 


OF  SARAH  NEVADA  MONTAGUE     269 

a  better  acquaintance  with  the  beauties  might  have  come 
about.  She  rather  brazenly  seemed  to  be  guarding  him. 
She  was  always  there. 

This  very  apparent  solicitude  of  hers  left  him  feeling 
pleasantly  important,  despite  the  social  contacts  it  doubt- 
less deprived  him  of.  He  wondered  if  the  Montague  girl 
could  be  jealous,  and  cautiously  one  day,  as  they  lolled  in 
the  motor  car,  he  sounded  her. 

"Those  girls  in  the  hotel  scenes — I  suppose  they're  all 
nice  girls  of  good  family?"  he  casually  observed. 

"Huh?"  demanded  Miss  Montague,  engaged  with  a 
pencil  at  the  moment  in  editing  her  left  eyebrow.  "Oh, 
that  bunch?  Sure,  they  all  come  from  good  old  Southern 
families — Virginia  and  Indiana  and  those  places."  She 
tightened  her  lips  before  the  little  mirror  she  held  and  re- 
newed their  scarlet.  Then  she  spoke  more  seriously.  "  Sure, 
Kid,  those  girls  are  all  right  enough.  They  work  like  dogs 
and  do  the  best  they  can  when  they  ain't  got  jobs.  I'm 
strong  for  'em.  But  then,  I'm  a  wise  old  trouper.  I  under- 
stand things.  You  don't.  You're  the  real  country  wild 
rose  of  this  piece.  It's  a  good  thing  you  got  me  to  ride  herd 
on  you.  You're  far  too  innocent  to  be  turned  loose  on  a 
comedy  lot. 

"Listen,  boy — "  She  turned  a  sober  face  to  him — 
"the  straight  lots  are  fairly  decent,  but  get  this:  a  comedy 
lot  is  the  toughest  place  this  side  of  the  bad  one.  Any 
comedy  lot." 

"But  this  isn't  a  comedy  lot.  Mr.  Baird  isn't  doing 
comedies  any  more,  and  these  people  all  seem  to  be  nice 
people.  Of  course  some  of  the  ladies  smoke  cigarettes " 

The  girl  had  averted  her  face  briefly,  but  now  turned  to 
him  again.  "Of  course  that's  so;  Jeff  is  trying  for  the 
better  things;  but  he's  still  using  lots  of  his  old  people. 
They're  all  right  for  me,  but  not  for  you.  You  wouldn't 
last  long  if  mother  here  didn't  look  out  for  you.  I'm  play- 
ing your  dear  little  sister,  but  I'm  playing  your  mother, 
too.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  me  this  bunch  would  have  taught 


270  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

you  a  lot  of  things  you'd  better  learn  some  other  way. 
Just  for  one  thing,  long  before  this  you'd  probably  been 
hopping  up  your  reindeers  and  driving  all  over  in  a  Chinese 
sleigh." 

He  tried  to  make  something  of  this,  but  found  the  words 
meaningless.  They  merely  suggested  to  him  a  snowy  winter 
scene  of  Santa  Glaus  and  his  innocent  equipage.  But  he 
would  intimate  that  he  understood. 

"Oh,  I  guess  not,"  he  said  knowingly.  The  girl  appeared 
not  to  have  heard  this  bit  of  pretense. 

"On  a  comedy  lot,"  she  said,  again  becoming  the  oracle, 
"you  can  do  murder  if  you  wipe  up  the  blood.  Remember 
that." 

He  did  not  again  refer  to  the  beautiful  young  women  who 
came  from  fine  old  Southern  homes.  The  Montague  girl 
was  too  emphatic  about  them. 

At  other  times  during  the  long  waits,  perhaps  while  they 
ate  lunch  brought  from  the  cafeteria,  she  would  tell  him  of 
herself.  His  old  troubling  visions  of  his  wonder-woman,  of 
Beulah  Baxter  the  daring,  had  well-nigh  faded,  but  now  and 
then  they  would  recur  as  if  from  long  habit,  and  he  would 
question  the  girl  about  her  life  as  a  double. 

"Yeah,  I  could  see  that  Baxter  business  was  a  blow  to  you, 
Kid.  You'd  kind  of  worshiped  her,  hadn't  you?" 

"Well,  I — yes,  in  a  sort  of  way " 

"Of  course  you  did;  it  was  very  nice  of  you "  She 

reached  over  to  pat  his  hand.  "Mother  understands  just 
how  you  felt,  watching  the  flims  back  there  in  Gooseberry  " — 
He  had  quit  trying  to  correct  her  as  to  Gashwiler  and  Sims- 
bury.  She  had  hit  upon  Gooseberry  as  a  working  composite 
of  both  names,  and  he  had  wearily  come  to  accept  it — "and 
I  know  just  how  you  felt" — Again  she  patted  his  hand — 
"that  night  when  you  found  me  doing  her  stuff." 

"It  did  kind  of  upset  me." 

"Sure  it  would!  But  you  ought  to  have  known  that  all 
these  people  use  doubles  when  they  can — men  and  women 
both.  It  not  only  saves  'em  work,  but  even  where  they  could 


OF  SARAH  NEVADA  MONTAGUE     271 

do  the  stuff  if  they  had  to — and  that  ain't  so  often — it  saves 
'em  broken  bones,  and  holding  up  a  big  production  two  or 
three  months.  Fine  business  that  would  be.  So  when  you 
see  a  woman,  or  a  man  either,  doing  something  that  someone 
else  could  do,  you  can  bet  someone  else  is  doing  it.  What 
would  you  expect?  Would  you  expect  a  high-priced  star 
to  go  out  and  break  his  leg? 

"And  at  that,  most  of  the  doubles  are  men,  even  for  the 
women  stars,  like  Kitty  Carson  always  carries  one  who  used 
to  be  a  circus  acrobat.  She  couldn't  hardly  do  one  of  the 
things  you  see  her  doing,  but  when  old  Dan  gets  on  her 
blonde  transformation  and  a  few  of  her  clothes,  he's  her  to 
the  life  in  a  long  shot,  or  even  in  mediums,  if  he  keeps  his 
map  covered. 

"Yeah,  most  of  the  doublers  have  to  be  men.  I'll  hand 
that  to  myself.  I'm  about  the  only  girl  that's  been  doing 
it,  and  that's  out  with  me  hereafter,  I  guess,  the  way  I  seem 
to  be  making  good  with  Jeff.  Maybe  after  this  I  won't  have 
to  do  stunts,  except  of  course  some  riding  stuff,  prob'ly,  or 
a  row  of  flips  or  something  light.  Anything  heavy  comes  up 
— me  for  a  double  of  my  own."  She  glanced  sidewise  at  her 
listener.  "Then  you  won't  like  me  any  more,  hey,  Kid,  after 
you  find  out  I'm  using  a  double?" 

He  had  listened  attentively,  absorbed  in  her  talk,  and 
seemed  startled  by  this  unforeseen  finish.  He  turned  anxious 
eyes  on  her.  It  occurred  to  him  for  the  first  time  that  he 
did  not  wish  the  Montague  girl  to  do  dangerous  things  any 
more.  "  Say,"  he  said  quickly,  amazed  at  his  own  discovery, 
"I  wish  you'd  quit  doing  all  those — stunts,  do  you  call 
'em?" 

"Why? "  she  demanded.  There  were  those  puzzling  lights 
back  in  her  eyes  as  he  met  them.  He  was  confused. 

"Well,  you  might  get  hurt." 

"Oh!" 

"You  might  get  killed  sometime.  And  it  wouldn't  make 
the  least  difference  to  me,  your  using  a  double.  I'd  like  you 
just  the  same." 


MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"I  see;  it  wouldn't  be  the  way  it  was  with  Baxter  when  you 
found  it  out." 

"No;  you — you're  different.  I  don't  want  you  to  get 
killed,"  he  added,  rather  blankly.  He  was  still  amazed  at 
this  discovery. 

"All  right,  Kid.     I  won't,"  she  replied  soothingly. 

"I'll  like  you  just  as  much,"  he  again  assured  her,  "no 
matter  how  many  doubles  you  have." 

"Well,  you'll  be  having  doubles  yourself,  sooner  or  later — 
and  I'll  like  you,  too."  She  reached  over  to  his  hand,  but 
this  time  she  held  it.  He  returned  her  strong  clasp.  He  had 
not  liked  to  think  of  her  being  mangled  perhaps  by  a  fall  into 
a  quarry  when  the  cable  gave  way — and  the  camera  men 
would  probably  keep  on  turning! 

"I  always  been  funny  about  men,"  she  presently  spoke 
again,  still  gripping  his  hand.  "Lord  knows  I've  seen 
enough  of  all  kinds,  bad  and  good,  but  I  always  been  kind  of 
afraid  even  of  the  good  ones.  Any  one  might  not  think  it, 
but  I  guess  I'm  just  natural-born  shy.  Man-shy,  anyway." 

He  glowed  with  a  confession  of  his  own.  "You  know,  I'm 
that  way,  too.  Girl-shy.  I  felt  awful  awkward  when  I  had 

to  kiss  you  in  the  other  piece.     I  never  did,  really "    He 

floundered  a  moment,  but  was  presently  blurting  out  the 
meagre  details  of  that  early  amour  with  Edwina  May  Pulver. 
He  stopped  this  recital  in  a  sudden  panic  fear  that  the  girl 
would  make  fun  of  him.  He  was  immensely  relieved  when 
she  merely  renewed  the  strength  of  the  handclasp. 

"I  know.  That's  the  way  with  me.  Of  course  I  can  put 
over  the  acting  stuff,  even  vamping,  but  I'm  afraid  of  men 
off-stage.  Say,  would  you  believe  it,  I  ain't  ever  had  but  one 
beau.  That  was  Bert  Stacy.  Poor  old  Bert!  He  was  lots 
older  than  me;  about- thirty,  I  guess.  He  was  white  all 
through.  You  always  kind  of  remind  me  of  him.  Sort  of  a 
feckless  dub  he  was,  too;  kind  of  honest  and  awkward — you 
know.  He  was  the  one  got  me  doing  stunts.  He  wasn't 
afraid  of  anything.  Didn't  know  it  was  even  in  the  diction- 
ary. That  old  scout  would  go  out  night  or  day  and  break 


OF  SARAH  NEVADA  MONTAGUE     273 

everything  but  his  contract.  I  was  twelve  when  I  first  knew 
him  and  he  had  me  doing  twisters  in  no  time.  I  caught  on  to 
the  other  stuff  pretty  good.  I  wasn't  afraid,  either,  I'll  say 
that  for  myself.  First  I  was  afraid  to  show  him  I  was  afraid, 
but  pretty  soon  I  wasn't  afraid  at  all. 

"We  pulled  off  a  lot  of  stuff  for  different  people.  And  of 
course  I  got  to  be  a  big  girl  and  three  years  ago  when  I  was 
eighteen  Bert  wanted  us  to  be  married  and  I  thought  I  might 
as  well.  He  was  the  only  one  I  hadn't  been  afraid  of.  So  we 
got  engaged.  I  was  still  kind  of  afraid  to  marry  any  one,  but 
being  engaged  was  all  right.  I  know  we'd  got  along  together, 
too,  but  then  he  got  his  with  a  motorcycle. 

"Kind  of  funny.  He'd  do  anything  on  that  machine. 
He'd  jump  clean  over  an  auto  and  he'd  leap  a  thirty-foot 
ditch  and  he  was  all  set  to  pull  a  new  one  for  Jeff  Baird  when 
it  happened.  Jeff  was  going  to  have  him  ride  his  motorcycle 
through  a  plate  glass  window.  The  set  was  built  and  every- 
thing ready  and  then  the  merry  old  sun  don't  shine  for  three 
days.  Every  morning  Bert  would  go  over  to  the  lot  and 
wait  around  in  the  fog.  And  this  third  day,  when  it  got  too 
late  in  the  afternoon  to  shoot  even  if  the  sun  did  show,  he 
says  to  me,  'c'mon,  hop  up  and  let's  take  a  ride  down  to  the 
beach.'  So  I  hop  to  the  back  seat  and  off  we  start  and  on  a 
ninety-foot  paved  boulevard  what  does  Bert  do  but  get 
caught  in  a  jam?  It  was  an  ice  wagon  that  finally  bumped 
us  over.  I  was  shook  up  and  scraped  here  and  there.  But 
Bert  was  finished.  That's  the  funny  part.  He'd  g~t  it  on 
this  boulevard,  but  back  on  the  lot  he'd  have  rode  through 
that  plate-glass  window  probably  without  a  scratch.  And 
just  because  the  sun  didn't  shine  that  day,  I  wasn't  engaged 
any  more.  Bert  was  kind  of  like  some  old  sea-captain  that 
comes  back  to  shore  after  risking  his  life  on  the  ocean  in  all 
kinds  of  storms,  and  falls  into  a  duck-pond  and  gets 
drowned." 

She  sat  a  long  time  staring  out  over  the  landscape,  still 
holding  his  hand.  Inside  the  fence  before  the  farmhouse 
three  of  the  New  York  villains  were  again  engaged  in  athletic 


274  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

sports,  but  she  seemed  oblivious  of  these.  At  last  she  turned 
to  him  again  with  an  illumining  smile. 

"But  I  was  dead  in  love  once  before  that,  and  that's  how  I 
know  just  how  you  feel  about  Baxter.  He  was  the  preacher 
where  we  used  to  go  to  church.  He  was  a  good  one.  Pa 
copied  a  lot  of  his  stuff  that  he  uses  to  this  day  if  he  happens 
to  get  a  preacher  part.  He  was  the  loveliest  thing.  Not  so 
young,  but  dark,  with  wonderful  eyes  and  black  hair,  and  his 
voice  would  go  all  through  you.  I  had  an  awful  case  on  him. 
I  was  twelve,  and  all  week  I  used  to  think  how  I'd  see  him  the 
next  Sunday.  Say,  when  I'd  get  there  and  he'd  be  working — 
doing  pulpit  stuff — he'd  have  me  in  kind  of  a  trance. 

"Sometimes  after  the  pulpit  scene  he'd  come  down  right 
into  the  audience  and  shake  hands  with  people.  I'd  almost 
keel  over  if  he'd  notice  me.  I'd  be  afraid  if  he  would  and 
afraid  if  he  wouldn't.  If  he  said  'And  how  is  the  little  lady 
this  morning?'  I  wouldn't  have  a  speck  of  voice  to  answer 
him.  I'd  just  tremble  all  over.  I  used  to  dream  I'd  get  a 
job  workin'  for  him  as  extra,  blacking  his  shoes  or  fetching  his 
breakfast  and  things. 

"  It  was  the  real  thing,  all  right.  I  used  to  try  to  pray  the 
way  he  did — asking  the  Lord  to  let  me  do  a  character  bit  or 
something  with  him.  He  had  me  going  all  right.  You  must 
'a*  been  that  way  about  Baxter.  Sure  you  were.  When  you 
found  she  was  married  and  used  a  double  and  everything,  it 
was  like  I'd  found  this  preacher  shooting  hop  or  using  a 
double  in  his  pulpit  stuff." 

She  was  still  again,  looking  back  upon  this  tremendous 
episode. 

"Yes,  that's  about  the  way  I  felt,"  he  told  her.  Already 
his  affair  with  Mrs.  Rosenblatt  seemed  a  thing  of  his  child- 
hood. He  was  wondering,  rather,  if  the  preacher  could  have 
been  the  perfect  creature  the  girl  was  now  picturing  him.  It 
would  not  have  displeased  him  to  learn  that  this  refulgent 
being  had  actually  used  a  double  in  his  big  scenes,  or  had  been 
guilty  of  mere  human  behaviour  at  odd  moments.  Probably, 
after  all,  he  had  been  just  a  preacher. 


OF  SAEAH  NEVADA  MONTAGUE     275 

"Uncle  Sylvester  used  to  want  me  to  be  a  preacher,"  he 
said,  with  apparent  irrelevance,  "even  if  he  was  his  own 
worst  enemy."  He  added  presently,  as  the  girl  remained 
silent,  "I  always  say  my  prayers  at  night."  He  felt  vaguely 
that  this  might  raise  him  to  the  place  of  the  other  who  had 
been  adored.  He  was  wishing  to  be  thought  well  of  by  this 
girl. 

She  was  aroused  from  her  musing  by  his  confession.  "You 
do?  Now  ain't  that  just  like  you?  I'd  have  bet  you  did 
that.  Well,  keep  on,  son.  It's  good  stuff." 

Her  serious  mood  seemed  to  pass.  She  was  presently 
exchanging  tart  repartee  with  the  New  York  villains  who 
had  perched  in  a  row  on  the  fence  to  be  funny  about  that  long- 
continued  holding  of  hands  in  the  motor  car.  She  was  quite 
unembarrassed,  however,  as  she  dropped  the  hand  with  a 
final  pat  and  vaulted  to  the  ground  over  the  side  of  the  car. 

"Get  busy,  there!"  she  ordered.  "Where's  your  under- 
stander — where's  your  top-mounter?"  She  became  a  circus 
ringmaster.  "Three  up  and  a  roll  for  yours,"  she  com- 
manded. The  three  villains  aligned  themselves  on  the  lawn. 
One  climbed  to  the  shoulders  of  the  other  and  a  third  found 
footing  on  the  second.  They  balanced  there,  presently  to 
lean  forward  from  the  summit.  The  girl  played  upon  an 
imaginary  snare  drum  with  a  guttural,  throaty  imitation  of 
its  roll,  culminating  in  the  "boom!"  of  a  bass-drum  as  the 
tower  toppled  to  earth.  Its  units,  completing  their  turn  with 
somersaults,  again  stood  in  line,  bowing  and  smirking  their 
acknowledgments  for  imagined  applause. 

The  girl,  a  moment  later,  was  turning  hand-springs.  Mer- 
ton  had  never  known  that  actors  were  so  versatile.  It  was  an 
astounding  profession,  he  thought,  remembering  his  own 
registration  card  that  he  had  filled  out  at  the  Holden  office. 
His  age,  height,  weight,  hair,  eyes,  and  his  chest  and  waist 
measures;  these  had  been  specified,  and  then  he  had  been 
obliged  to  write  the  short  "No"  after  ride,  drive,  swim, 
dance — to  write  "No"  after  "Ride?"  even  in  the  artistically 
photographed  presence  of  Buck  Benson  on  horseback! 


276  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

Yet  in  spite  of  these  disabilities  he  was  now  a  successful 
actor  at  an  enormous  salary.  Baird  was  already  saying  that 
he  would  soon  have  a  contract  for  him  to  sign  at  a  still  larger 
figure.  Seemingly  it  was  a  profession  in  which  you  could 
rise  even  if  you  were  not  able  to  turn  hand  springs  or  were 
more  or  less  terrified  by  horses  and  deep  water  and  dance 
music. 

And  the  Montague  girl,  who,  he  now  fervently  hoped, 
would  not  be  killed  while  doubling  for  Mrs.  Rosenblatt,  was 
a  puzzling  creature.  He  thought  his  hand  must  still  be  warm 
from  her  enfolding  of  it,  even  when  work  was  resumed  and  he 
saw  her,  with  sunbonnet  pushed  back,  stand  at  the  gate  of 
the  little  farmhouse  and  behave  in  an  utterly  brazen  manner 
toward  one  of  the  New  York  clubmen  who  was  luring  her  up 
to  the  great  city.  She,  who  had  just  confided  to  him  that 
she  was  afraid  of  men,  was  now  practically  daring  an  un- 
doubted scoundrel  to  lure  her  up  to  the  great  city  and  make  a 
lady  of  her.  And  she  had  been  afraid  of  all  but  a  clergyman 
and  a  stunt  actor!  He  wondered  interestingly  if  she  were 
afraid  of  Merton  Gill.  She  seemed  not  to  be. 

On  another  day  of  long  waits  they  ate  their  lunch  from 
the  cafeteria  box  on  the  steps  of  the  little  home  and  discussed 
stage  names.  "I  guess  we  better  can  that  'Clifford  Army- 
tage*  stuff,"  she  told  him  as  she  seriously  munched  a  sand- 
wich. "We  don't  need  it.  That's  out.  Merton  Gill  is  a 
lot  better  name."  She  had  used  "we"  quite  as  if  it  were  a 
community  name. 

"Well,  if  you  think  so ^"  he  began  regretfully,  for 

Clifford  Armytage  still  seemed  superior  to  the  indistinction  of 
Merton  Gill. 

"Sure,  it's  a  lot  better,"  she  went  on.  "That  'Clifford 
Armytage' — say,  it  reminds  me  of  just  another  such  feckless 
dub  as  you  that  acted  with  us  one  time  when  we  all  trouped  in 
a  rep  show,  playing  East  Lynne  and  such  things.  He  was 
just  as  wise  as  you  are,  and  when  he  joined  out  at  Kansas 
City  they  gave  him  a  whole  book  of  the  piece  instead  of  just 
his  sides.  He  was  a  quick  study,  at  that,  only  he  learned 


OF  SARAH  NEVADA  MONTAGUE     £77 

•everybody's  part  as  well  as  his  own,  and  that  slowed  him. 
They  put  him  on  in  Waco,  and  the  manager  was  laid  up,  so 
they  told  him  that  after  the  third  act  he  was  to  go  out  and 
-announce  the  bill  for  the  next  night,  and  he  learned  that 
speech,  too. 

"He  got  on  fine  till  the  big  scene  in  the  third  act.  Then 
he  went  blooey  because  that  was  as  far  as  he'd  learned,  so  he 
just  left  the  scene  cold  and  walked  down  to  the  foots  and 
bowed  and  said,  'Ladies  and  gentlemen,  we  thank  you  for  your 
attendance  here  this  evening  and  to-morrow  night  we  shall 
have  the  honour  of  presenting  Lady  Audley's  Secret.' 

"  With  that  he  gave  a  cold  look  to  the  actors  back  of  him 
that  were  gasping  like  fish,  and  walked  off.  And  he  was  like 
you  in  another  way  because  his  real  name  was  Eddie  Duffy, 
and  the  lovely  stage  name  he'd  picked  out  was  Clyde  Mal- 
travers." 

"Well,  Clifford  Armytage  is  out,  then,"Merton  announced, 
feeling  that  he  had  now  buried  a  part  of  his  dead  self  in  a 
grave  where  Beulah  Baxter,  the  wonder-woman,  already  lay 
interred.  Still,  he  was  conscious  of  a  certain  relief.  The 
stage  name  had  been  bothersome. 

"It  ain't  as  if  you  had  a  name  like  mine,"  the  girl  went 
on.  "I  simply  had  to  have  help." 

He  wondered  what  her  own  name  was.  He  had  never 
heard  her  called  anything  but  the  absurd  and  undignified 
"Flips."  She  caught  the  question  he  had  looked. 

"Well,  my  honest-to-God  name  is  Sarah  Nevada  Mon- 
tague; Sarah  for  Ma  and  Nevada  for  Reno  where  Ma  had 
to  stop  off  for  me — she  was  out  of  the  company  two  weeks — 
and  if  you  ever  tell  a  soul  I'll  have  the  law  on  you.  That 
was  a  fine  way  to  abuse  a  helpless  baby,  wasn't  it?" 

"But  Sarah  is  all  right.     I  like  Sarah." 

"Do  you,  Kid?"  She  patted  his  hand.  "All  right,  then, 
but  it's  only  for  your  personal  use." 

"Of  course  the  Nevada "  he  hesitated.  "It  does 

sound  kind  of  like  a  geography  lesson  or  something.  But 
I  think  I'll  call  you  Sarah,  I  mean  when  we're  alone." 


278  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"Well,  that's  more  than  Ma  ever  does,  and  you  bet  it'll 
never  get  into  my  press  notices.  But  go  ahead  if  you  want 
to." 

"I  will,  Sarah.  It  sounds  more  like  a  true  woman  than 
'Flips.'" 

"Bless  the  child's  heart,"  she  murmured,  and  reached 
across  the  lunch  box  to  pat  his  hand  again. 

"You're  a  great  little  patter,  Sarah,"  he  observed  with 
one  of  his  infrequent  attempts  at  humour. 

On  still  another  day,  while  they  idled  between  scenes, 
she  talked  to  him  about  salaries  and  contracts,  again  with 
her  important  air  of  mothering  him. 

"After  this  picture,"  she  told  him,  "Jeff  was  going  to  sew 
you  up  with  a  long-time  contract,  probably  at  a  hundred 
and  fifty  per.  But  I've  told  him  plain  I  won't  stand  for  it. 
No  five-year  contract,  and  not  any  contract  at  that  figure. 
Maybe  three  years  at  two  hundred  and  fifty,  I  haven't 
decided  yet.  I'll  wait  and  see — "  she  broke  off  to  re- 
gard him  with  that  old  puzzling  light  far  back  in  her 
eyes — "wait  and  see  how  you  get  over  in  these  two 
pieces. 

"But  I  know  you'll  go  big,  and  so  does  Jeff.  We've  caught 
you  in  the  rushes  enough  to  know  that.  And  Jeff's  a  good 
fellow,  but  naturally  he'll  get  you  for  as  little  as  he  can.  He 
knows  all  about  money  even  if  he  don't  keep  Yom  Kippur. 
So  I'm  watching  over  you,  son — I'm  your  manager,  see? 
And  I've  told  him  so,  plain.  He  knows  he'll  have  to  give 
you  just  what  you're  worth.  Of  course  he's  entitled  to  con- 
sideration for  digging  you  up  and  developing  you,  but  a 
three-year  contract  will  pay  him  out  for  that.  Trust 
mother." 

"I  do,"  he  told  her.     "I'd  be  helpless  without  you.     It 
kind  of  scares  me  to  think  of  getting  all  that  money.     I 
won't  know  what  to  do  with  it." 

"I  will;  you  always  listen  to  me,  and  you  won't  be  camp- 
ing on  the  lot  any  more.  And  don't  shoot  dice  with  these 
rough-necks  on  the  lot." 


OF  SARAH  NEVADA  MONTAGUE     279 

"I  won't,"  he  assured  her.  "I  don't  believe  in  gam- 
bling." He  wondered  about  Sarah's  own  salary,  and  was 
surprised  to  learn  that  it  was  now  double  his  own.  It  was 
surprising,  because  her  acting  seemed  not  so  important  to  the 
piece  as  his.  "  It  seems  like  a  lot  of  money  for  what  you  have 
to  do,"  he  said. 

"There,"  she  smiled  warmly,  "didn't  I  always  say  you 
were  a  natural  born  trouper?  Well,  it  is  a  lot  of  money  for 
me,  but  you  see  I've  helped  Jeff  dope  out  both  of  these  pieces. 
I'm  not  so  bad  at  gags — I  mean  the  kind  of  stuff  he  needs  in 
these  serious  dramas.  This  big  scene  of  yours,  where  you 
go  off  to  the  city  and  come  back  a  wreck  on  Christmas  night 
— that's  mine.  I  doped  it  out  after  the  piece  was  started — 
after  I'd  had  a  good  look  at  the  truck  driver  that  plays  op- 
posite you." 

Truck  driver?  It  appeared  that  Miss  Montague  was 
actually  applying  this  term  to  the  New  York  society  girl 
who  in  private  life  was  burdened  with  an  ailing  family.  He 
explained  now  that  Mr.  Baird  had  not  considered  her  ideal 
for  the  part,  but  had  chosen  her  out  of  kindness. 

Again  there  flickered  far  back  in  her  eyes  those  lights  that 
baffled  him.  There  was  incredulity  in  her  look,  but  she 
seemed  to  master  it. 

"But  I  think  it  was  wonderful  of  you,"  he  continued,  "to 
write  that  beautiful  scene.  It's  a  strong  scene,  Sarah.  I 
didn't  know  you  could  write,  too.  It's  as  good  as  anything 
Tessie  Kearns  ever  did,  and  she's  written  a  lot  of  strong 
scenes." 

Miss  Montague  seemed  to  struggle  with  some  unidentified 
emotion.  After  a  long,  puzzling  gaze  she  suddenly  said: 
"Merton  Gill,  you  come  right  here  with  all  that  make-up 
on  and  give  mother  a  good  big  kiss!" 

Astonishingly  to  himself,  he  did  so  in  the  full  light  of 
day  and  under  the  eyes  of  one  of  the  New  York  villains  who 
had  been  pretending  that  he  walked  a  tight-rope  across  the 
yard.  After  he  had  kissed  the  girl,  she  seized  him  by  both 
arms  and  shook  him.  "  I'd  ought  to  have  been  using  my  own 


280  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

face  in  that  scene,"  she  said.    Then  she  patted  his  shoulder 
and  told  him  that  he  was  a  good  boy. 

The  pretending  tight-rope  walker  had  paused  to  applaud. 
"Your  act's  flopping,  Bo,"  said  Miss  Montague.  "Work 
fast."  Then  she  again  addressed  the  good  boy:  "Wait 
till  you've  watched  that  scene  before  you  thank  me,"  she 
said  shortly. 

"But  it's  a  strong  scene,"  he  insisted. 

"Yes,"  she  agreed.     "It's  strong." 

He  told  her  of  the  other  instance  of  Baird's  kindness  of 
heart. 

"You  know  I  was  a  little  afraid  of  playing  scenes  with  the 
cross-eyed  man,  but  Mr.  Baird  said  he  was  trying  so  hard 
to  do  serious  work,  so  I  wouldn't  have  him  discharged. 
But  shouldn't  you  think  he'd  save  up  and  have  his  eyes 
straightened?  Does  he  get  a  very  small  salary?" 

The  girl  seemed  again  to  be  harassed  by  conflicting 
emotions,  but  mastered  them  to  say,  "  I  don't  know  exactly 
what  it  is,  but  I  guess  he  draws  down  about  twelve  fifty  a 
week." 

"Only  twelve  dollars  and  fifty  cents  a  week!" 

"Twelve  hundred  and  fifty,"  said  the  girl  firmly. 

"Twelve  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  week!"  This  was 
monstrous,  incredible.  "But  then  why  doesn't  he  have  his 
eyes ' 

Miss  Montague  drew  him  to  her  with  both  her  capable 
arms.  "My  boy,  my  boy!"  she  murmured,  and  upon  his 
painted  forehead  she  now  imprinted  a  kiss  of  deep  reverence. 
"Run  along  and  play,"  she  ordered.  "You're  getting  me  all 
nervous."  Forthwith  she  moved  to  the  centre  of  the  yard 
where  the  tight-rope  walker  still  endangered  his  life  above 
the  heads  of  a  vast  audience. 

She  joined  him.  She  became  a  performer  on  the  slack 
wire.  With  a  parasol  to  balance  her,  she  ran  to  the  centre 
of  an  imaginary  wire  that  swayed  perilously,  and  she  swung 
there,  cunningly  maintaining  a  precarious  balance.  Then 
she  sped  back  to  safety  at  the  wire's  end,  threw  down  her 


OF  SARAH  NEVADA  MONTAGUE     281 

parasol,  caught  the  handkerchief  thrown  to  her  by  the  first 
performer,  and  daintily  touched  her  face  with  it,  breathing 
deeply  the  while  and  bowing. 

He  thought  Sarah  was  a  strange  child — "One  minute  one 
thing  and  the  next  minute  something  else." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

MISS  MONTAGUE  USES  HER  OWN  FACE 

WORK  on  the  piece  dragged  slowly  to  an  end.  In 
these  latter  days  the  earnest  young  leading  man. 
suffered  spells  of  concern  for  his  employer.  He  was 
afraid  that  Mr.  Baird  in  his  effort  to  struggle  out  of  the  slough 
of  low  comedy  was  not  going  to  be  wholly  successful.  He 
had  begun  to  note  that  the  actors  employed  for  this  purpose 
were  not  invariably  serious  even  when  the  cameras  turned. 
Or,  if  serious,  they  seemed  perhaps  from  the  earnestness 
of  their  striving  for  the  worth-while  drama,  to  be  a  shade  too 
serious.  They  were  often,  he  felt,  over-empl  atic  in  their 
methods.  Still,  they  were,  he  was  certain,  good  actors. 
One  could  always  tell  what  they  meant. 

It  was  at  these  times  that  he  especially  wished  he  might 
be  allowed  to  view  the  "rushes."  He  not  only  wished  to 
assure  himself  for  Baird' s  sake  that  the  piece  would  be  ac- 
ceptably serious,  but  he  wished,  with  a  quite  seemly  curios- 
ity, to  view  his  own  acting  on  the  screen.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  he  had  been  acting  a  long  time  without  a  glimpse  of 
himself.  But  Baird  had  been  singularly  firm  in  this  matter, 
and  the  Montague  girl  had  sided  with  him.  It  was  best, 
they  said,  for  a  beginning  actor  not  to  see  himself  at  first. 
It  might  affect  his  method  before  this  had  crystallized;  make 
him  self-conscious,  artificial. 

He  was  obliged  to  believe  that  these  well-wishers  of  his 
knew  best.  He  must  not,  then,  trifle  with  a  screen  success 
that  seemed  assured.  He  tried  to  be  content  with  this  de- 
cision. But  always  the  misgivings  would  return.  He  would 
not  be  really  content  until  he  had  watched  his  own  triumph. 

282 


MISS  MONTAGUE  USES  HER  OWN  FACE   283 

Soon  this  would  be  so  securely  his  privilege  that  not  even 
Baird  could  deny  it,  for  the  first  piece  in  which  he  had  worked 
was  about  to  be  shown.  He  looked  forward  to  that. 

It  was  toward  the  end  of  the  picture  that  his  intimacy 
with  the  Montague  girl  grew  to  a  point  where,  returning 
from  location  to  the  studio  late,  they  would  dine  together. 
"Hurry  and  get  ungreased,  Son,"  she  would  say,  "and  you 
can  take  an  actress  out  to  dinner."  Sometimes  they  would 
patronize  the  cafeteria  on  the  lot,  but  oftener,  in  a  spirit  of 
adventure,  they  would  search  out  exotic  restaurants.  A 
picture  might  follow,  after  which  by  street-car  he  would  escort 
her  to  the  Montague  home  in  a  remote,  flat  region  of  palm- 
lined  avenues  sparsely  set  with  new  bungalows. 

She  would  disquiet  him  at  these  times  by  insisting  that 
she  pay  her  share  of  the  expense,  and  she  proved  to  have 
no  mean  talent  for  petty  finance,  for  she  remembered  every 
item  down  to  the  street-car  fares.  Even  to  Merton  Gill 
she  seemed  very  much  a  child  once  she  stepped  from  the 
domain  of  her  trade.  She  would  stare  into  shop  windows 
wonderingly,  and  never  failed  to  evince  the  most  childish 
delight  when  they  ventured  to  dine  at  an  establishment  other 
than  a  cafeteria. 

At  times  when  they  waited  for  a  car  after  these  dissipations 
he  suffered  a  not  unpleasant  alarm  at  sight  of  a  large- worded 
advertisement  along  the  back  of  a  bench  on  which  they  would 
sit.  "  You  furnish  the  Girl,  We  furnish  the  House,"  screamed 
the  bench  to  him  above  the  name  of  an  enterprising  trades- 
man that  came  in  time  to  bite  itself  deeply  into  his  memory. 

Of  course  it  would  be  absurd,  but  stranger  things,  he 
thought,  had  happened.  He  wondered  if  the  girl  was  as 
afraid  of  him  as  of  other  men.  She  seemed  not  to  be,  but 
you  couldn't  tell  much  about  her.  She  had  kissed  him  one 
day  with  a  strange  warmth  of  manner,  but  it  had  been  quite 
publicly  in  the  presence  of  other  people.  When  he  left  her 
at  her  door  now  it  was  after  the  least  sentimental  of  partings, 
perhaps  a  shake  of  her  hard  little  hand,  or  perhaps  only  a 
"S'long — see  you  at  the  show-shop!" 


£84  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

It  was  on  one  of  these  nights  that  she  first  invited  him  to 
dine  with  the  Montague  family.  "I  tried  last  night  to  get 
you  on  the  telephone,"  she  explained,  "but  they  kept  giving 
pie  someone  else,  or  maybe  I  called  wrong.  Ain't  these 
six-figured  Los  Angeles  telephone  numbers  the  limit?  When 
you  call  208972  or  something,  it  sounds  like  paging  a  box-car. 
I  was  going  to  ask  you  over.  Ma  had  cooked  a  lovely  mess 
of  corned  beef  and  cabbage.  Anyway,  you  come  eat  with 
us  to-morrow  night,  will  you?  She'll  have  something  else 
cooked  up  that  will  stick  to  the  merry  old  slats.  You  can 
come  home  with  me  when  we  get  in  from  work." 

So  it  was  that  on  the  following  night  he  enjoyed  a  home 
evening  with  the  Montagues.  Mrs.  Montague  had  indeed 
cooked  up  something  else,  and  had  done  it  well;  while  Mr. 
Montague  offered  at  the  sideboard  a  choice  of  amateur  distilla- 
tions and  brews  which  he  warmly  recommended  to  the  guest. 
While  the  guest  timidly  considered,  having  had  but  the  slight- 
est experience  with  intoxicants,  it  developed  that  the  con- 
fidence placed  in  his  product  by  the  hospitable  old  craftsman 
was  not  shared  by  his  daughter. 

"Keep  off  it,"  she  warned,  and  then  to  her  father,  "Say, 
listen,  Pa,  have  a  heart;  that  boy's  got  to  work  to-morrow." 

"So  be  it,  my  child,"  replied  Mr.  Montague  with  a  visible 
stiffening  of  manner.  "Sylvester  Montague  is  not  the  man 
to  urge  strong  drink  upon  the  reluctant  or  the  over-cautious. 
I  shall  drink  my  aperatif  alone." 

"Go  to  it,  old  Pippin,"  rejoined  his  daughter  as  she  van- 
ished to  the  kitchen. 

"Still,  a  little  dish  of  liquor  at  this  hour,"  continued  the 
host  suggestively  when  they  were  alone. 

"Well" — Merton  wished  the  girl  had  stayed — "perhaps 
just  a  few  drops." 

"Precisely,  my  boy,  precisely.  A  mere  dram."  He 
poured  the  mere  dram  and  his  guest  drank.  It  was  a  colour- 
less, fiery  stuff  with  an  elusive  taste  of  metal.  Merton  con- 
trived an  expression  of  pleasure  under  the  searching  glance 
of  his  host. 


MISS  MONTAGUE  USES  HER  OWN  FACE   285 

"Ah,  1  knew  you  would  relish  it.  I  fancy  I  could  amaze 
you  if  I  told  you  how  recently  it  was  made.  Now  here" — 
He  grasped  another  bottle  purposely — "is  something  a 
full  ten  days  older.  It  has  developed  quite  a  bouquet. 
Just  a  drop " 

The  guest  graciously  yet  firmly  waved  a  negation. 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  "but  I  want  to  enjoy  the  last — it — it 
has  so  much  flavour." 

"It  has;  it  has,  indeed.  I'll  not  urge  you,  of  course.  Later 
you  must  see  the  simple  mechanism  by  which  I  work  these 
wonders.  Alone,  then,  I  drink  to  you." 

Mr.  Montague  alone  drank  of  two  other  fruits  of  his  loom 
before  the  ladies  appeared  with  dinner.  He  was  clean- 
shaven now  and  his  fine  face  glowed  with  hospitality  as  he 
carved  roast  chickens.  The  talk  was  of  the  shop:  of  what 
Mr.  Montague  scornfully  called  "grind  shows"  when  his 
daughter  led  it,  and  of  the  legitimate  hall-show  when  he 
gained  the  leadership.  He  believed  that  moving  pictures 
had  sounded  the  knell  of  true  dramatic  art  and  said  so  in 
many  ways. 

He  tried  to  imagine  the  sensations  of  Lawrence  Barrett 
or  Louis  James  could  they  behold  Sylvester  Montague,  whom 
both  these  gentlemen  had  proclaimed  to  be  no  mean  artist, 
enacting  the  role  of  a  bar-room  rowdy  five  days  on  end  by 
reclining  upon  a  sawdust  floor  with  his  back  supported  by  a 
spirits  barrel.  The  supposititious  comments  of  the  two 
placed  upon  the  motion  picture  industry  the  black  guilt  of 
having  degraded  a  sterling  artist  to  the  level  of  a  peep-show 
mountebank.  They  were  frankly  disgusted  at  the  spectacle, 
and  their  present  spokesman  thought  it  as  well  that  they  had 
not  actually  lived  to  witness  it — even  the  happier  phases 
of  this  so-called  art  in  which  a  mere  chit  of  a  girl  might 
earn  a  living  wage  by  falling  downstairs  for  a  so-called  star, 
or  the  he-doll  whippersnapper — Merton  Gill  flinched  in 
spite  of  himself — could  name  his  own  salary  for  merely  pos- 
sessing a  dimpled  chin. 

Further,  an  artist  in  the  so-called  art  received  his  pay- 


286  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

merit  as  if  he  had  delivered  groceries  at  one's  back  door. 
"You,  I  believe — "  — The  speaker  addressed  his  guest — 
"are  at  present  upon  a  pay-roll;  but  there  are  others,  your 
elders — possibly  your  betters,  though  I  do  not  say  that " 

"You  better  not,"  remarked  his  daughter,  only  to  be 
ignored. 

" — others  who  must  work  a  day  and  at  the  close  of  it 
receive  a  slip  of  paper  emblazoned  *  Talent  Pay  Check.' 
How  more  effectively  could  they  cheapen  the  good  word 
'talent'?  And  at  the  foot  of  this  slip  you  are  made  to  sign, 
before  receiving  the  pittance  you  have  earned,  a  consent  to 
the  public  exhibition  for  the  purpose  of  trade  or  advertising, 
of  the  pictures  for  which  you  may  have  posed.  Could  trades- 
men descend  to  a  lower  level,  I  ask  you?" 

"I'll  have  one  for  twelve  fifty  to-morrow  night,"  said 
Mrs.  Montague,  not  too  dismally.  "I  got  to  do  a  duchess 
at  a  reception,  and  I  certainly  hope  my  feet  don't  hurt  me 
again." 

"Cheer  up,  old  dears!  Pretty  soon  you  can  both  pick 
your  parts,"  chirped  their  daughter.  "Jeff's  going  to  give 
me  a  contract,  and  then  you  can  loaf  forever  for  all  I  care. 
Only  I  know  you  won't,  and  you  know  you  won't.  Both  of 
you'd  act  for  nothing  if  you  couldn't  do  it  for  money.  What's 
the  use  of  pretending?" 

"The  chit  may  be  right,  she  may  be  right,"  conceded  Mr. 
Montague  sadly. 

Later,  while  the  ladies  were  again  in  the  kitchen,  Mr. 
Montague,  after  suggesting,  "Something  in  the  nature  of  an 
after-dinner  cordial,"  quaffed  one  for  himself  and  followed 
it  with  the  one  he  had  poured  out  for  a  declining  guest  who 
still  treasured  the  flavour  of  his  one  aperatif . 

He  then  led  the  way  to  the  small  parlour  where  he  placed 
in  action  on  the  phonograph  a  record  said  to  contain  the 
ravings  of  John  McCullough  in  his  last  hours.  He  listened 
to  this  emotionally. 

"That's  the  sort  of  technique,"  he  said,  "that  the  so- 
called  silver  screen  has  made  but  a  memory." 


MISS  MONTAGUE  USES  HER  OWN  FACE   287 

He  lighted  his  pipe,  and  identified  various  framed  photo- 
graphs that  enlivened  the  walls  of  the  little  room.  Many 
of  them  were  of  himself  at  an  earlier  age. 

"My  dear  mother-in-law,"  he  said,  pointing  to  another. 
"A  sterling  artist,  and  in  her  time  an  ornament  of  the  speak- 
ing stage.  I  was  on  tour  when  her  last  days  came.  She 
idolized  me,  and  passed  away  with  my  name  on  her  lips. 
Her  last  request  was  that  a  photograph  of  me  should  be 
placed  in  her  casket  before  it  went  to  its  final  resting  place." 

He  paused,  his  emotion  threatening  to  overcome  him. 
Presently  he  brushed  a  hand  across  his  eyes  and  continued, 
"I  discovered  later  that  they  had  picked  out  the  most  wretch- 
ed of  all  my  photographs — an  atrocious  thing  I  had  supposed 
was  destroyed.  Can  you  imagine  it?" 

Apparently  it  was  but  the  entrance  of  his  daughter  that 
saved  him  from  an  affecting  collapse.  His  daughter  re- 
moved the  record  of  John  McCullough's  ravings,  sniffed  at 
it,  and  put  a  fox-trot  in  its  place. 

"He's  got  to  learn  to  dance,"  she  explained,  laying  hands 
upon  the  guest. 

"Dancing — dancing!"  murmured  Mr.  Montague,  as  if  the 
very  word  recalled  bitter  memories. 

With  brimming  eyes  he  sat  beating  time  to  the  fox-trot 
measure  while  Merton  Gill  proved  to  all  observers  that  his 
mastery  of  this  dance  would,  if  ever  at  all  achieved,  be  only 
after  long  and  discouraging  effort. 

"You  forget  all  about  your  feet,"  remarked  the  girl  as 
they  paused,  swaying  to  the  rhythm.  "Remember  the  feet 

— they're  important  in  a  dance.  Now! "  But  it  was 

hard  to  remember  his  feet  or,  when  he  did  recall  them,  to 
relate  their  movements  even  distantly  to  the  music.  When 
this  had  died  despairingly,  the  girl  surveyed  her  pupil  with 
friendly  but  doubting  eyes. 

"Say,  Pa,  don't  he  remind  you  of  someone?  Remember 
the  squirrel  that  joined  out  with  us  one  time  in  the  rep  show 
and  left  'East  Lynne'  flat  right  in  the  middle  of  the  third  act 
while  he  went  down  and  announced  the  next  night's  play — 


288  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

the  one  that  his  name  was  Eddie  Duffy  and  he  called  himself 
Clyde  Maltravers?" 

"In  a  way,  in  a  way,"  agreed  Mr.  Montague  dismally. 
"A  certain  lack  of  finish  in  the  manner,  perhaps." 

"Remember  how  Charlie  Dickman,  the  manager,  nearly 
murdered  him  for  it  in  the  wings?  Not  that  Charlie  didn't 
have  a  right  to.  Well,  this  boy  dances  like  Eddie  Duffy 
would  have  danced." 

"He  was  undeniably  awkward  and  forgetful,"  said  Mr. 
Montague.  "  Well  do  I  recall  a  later  night.  We  played  Un- 
der the  Gaslight;  Charlie  feared  to  trust  him  with  a  part,  so 
he  kept  the  young  man  off  stage  to  help  with  the  train  noise 
when  the  down  express  should  dash  across.  But  even  in 
this  humble  station  he  proved  inefficient.  When  the  train 
came  on  he  became  confused,  seized  the  cocoanut  shells  in- 
stead of  the  sand-paper,  and  our  train  that  night  entered 
to  the  sound  of  a  galloping  horse.  The  effect  must  have  been 
puzzling  to  the  audience.  Indeed,  many  of  them  seemed  to 
consider  it  ludicrous.  Charlie  Dickman  confided  in  me 
later.  *Syl,  my  boy/  says  he,  'this  bird  Duffy  has  caused 
my  first  gray  hairs/  It  was  little  wonder  that  he  persuaded 
young  Duffy  to  abandon  the  drama.  He  was  not  meant 
for  the  higher  planes  of  our  art.  Now  our  young  friend 
here" —  he  pointed  to  the  perspiring  Merton  Gill — "doesn't 
even  seem  able  to  master  a  simple  dance  step.  I  might  say 
that  he  seems  to  out-Duffy  Duffy — for  Duffy  could  dance 
after  a  fashion." 

"He'll  make  the  grade  yet,"  replied  his  daughter  grimly, 
and  again  the  music  sounded.  Merton  Gill  continued  un- 
conscious of  his  feet,  or,  remembering  them,  he  became  deaf 
to  the  music.  But  the  girl  brightened  with  a  sudden  thought 
when  next  they  rested. 

"I  got  it!"  she  announced.  "We'll  have  about  two  hun- 
dred feet  of  this  for  the  next  picture — you  trying  to  dance 
just  the  way  you  been  doing  with  me.  If  you  don't  close 
to  a  good  hand  I'll  eat  my  last  pay-check." 

The  lessons  ceased.     She  seemed  no  longer  to  think  it 


MISS  MONTAGUE  USES  HER  OWN  FACE    289 

desirable  that  her  pupil  should  become  proficient  in  the  mod- 
ern steps.  He  was  puzzled  by  her  decision.  Why  should 
one  of  Baird's  serious  plays  need  an  actor  who  forgot  his  feet 
in  a  dance? 

There  were  more  social  evenings  at  the  Montague  home. 
Twice  the  gathering  was  enlarged  by  other  members  of  the 
film  colony,  a  supper  was  served  and  poker  played  for  in- 
considerable stakes.  In  this  game  of  chance  the  Montague 
girl  proved  to  be  conservative,  not  to  say  miserly,  and  was 
made  to  suffer  genuinely  when  Merton  Gill  displayed  a 
reckless  spirit  in  the  betting.  That  he  amassed  winnings 
of  ninety-eight  cents  one  night  did  not  reassure  her.  She 
pointed  out  that  he  might  easily  have  lost  this  sum. 

She  was  indeed  being  a  mother  to  the  defenceless  boy. 
It  was  after  a  gambling  session  that  she  demanded  to  be 
told  what  he  was  doing  with  his  salary.  His  careless  hazard- 
ing of  poker-chips  had  caused  her  to  be  fearful  of  his  general 
money  sense. 

Merton  Gill  had  indeed  been  reckless.  He  was  now,  he 
felt,  actually  one  of  the  Hollywood  set.  He  wondered  how 
Tessie  Kearns  would  regard  his  progress.  Would  she  be 
alarmed  to  know  he  attended  those  gay  parties  that  so  often 
brought  the  film  colony  into  unfavourable  public  notice? 
Jolly  dinners,  dancing,  gambling,  drinking  with  actresses — 
for  Mr.  Montague  had  at  last  turned  out  a  beer  that  met  with 
the  approval  not  only  of  his  guests  but  of  his  own  more  ex- 
acting family.  The  vivacious  brew  would  now  and  again 
behave  unreasonably  at  the  moment  of  being  released,  but 
it  was  potable  when  subdued. 

It  was  a  gay  life,  Merton  felt.  And  as  for  the  Montague 
girl's  questions  and  warnings  about  his  money,  he  would 
show  her!  He  had,  of  course,  discharged  his  debt  to  her  in 
the  first  two  weeks  of  his  work  with  Baird.  Now  he  would 
show  her  what  he  really  thought  of  money. 

He  would  buy  her  a  gift  whose  presentation  should  mark 
a  certain  great  occasion.  It  should  occur  on  the  eve  of  his 
screen  debut,  and  would  fittingly  testify  his  gratitude.  For 


290  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

the  girl,  after  all,  had  made  him  what  he  was.  And  the  first 
piece  was  close  to  its  premiere.  Already  he  had  seen  ad- 
vance notices  in  the  newspapers.  The  piece  was  called 
Hearts  On  Fire,  and  in  it,  so  the  notices  said,  the  comedy 
manager  had  at  last  realized  an  ambition  long  nourished. 
He  had  done  something  new  and  something  big:  a  big  thing 
done  in  a  big  way.  The  Montague  girl  would  see  that  the 
leading  man  who  had  done  so  much  to  insure  the  success  of 
Baird's  striving  for  the  worth-while  drama  was  not  unfor- 
getful  of  her  favours  and  continuous  solicitude. 

He  thought  first  of  a  ring,  but  across  the  blank  brick 
wall  of  the  jewellery  shop  he  elected  to  patronize  was  an  enor- 
mous sign  in  white:  The  House  of  Lucky  Wedding  Rings. 
This  staring  announcement  so  alarmed  him  that  he  not  only 
abandoned  the  plan  for  a  ring — any  sort  of  ring  might  be 
misconstrued,  he  saw — but  in  an  excess  of  caution  chose 
another  establishment  not  so  outspoken.  If  it  kept  wedding 
rings  at  all,  it  was  decently  reticent  about  them,  and  it  did 
keep  a  profusion  of  other  trinkets  about  which  a  possible 
recipient  could  entertain  no  false  notions.  Wrist  watches, 
for  example.  No  one  could  find  subtle  or  hidden  meanings 
in  a  wrist  watch. 

He  chose  a  bauble  that  glittered  prettily  on  its  black  silk 
bracelet,  and  was  not  shocked  in  the  least  when  told  by  the 
engaging  salesman  that  its  price  was  a  sum  for  which  in  the 
old  days  Gashwiler  had  demanded  a  good  ten  weeks  of  his 
life.  Indeed  it  seemed  rather  cheap  to  him  when  he  re- 
membered the  event  it  should  celebrate.  Still,  it  was  a  pleas- 
ing trifle  and  did  not  look  cheap. 

"Do  you  warrant  it  to  keep  good  time?"  he  sternly  de- 
manded. 

The  salesman  became  diplomatic,  though  not  without  an 
effect  of  genial  man-to-man  frankness.  "Well,  I  guess  you 
and  I  both  know  what  women's  bracelet-watches  are." 
He  smiled  a  superior  masculine  smile  that  drew  his  customer 
within  the  informed  brotherhood.  "Now  here,  there's  a 
platinum  little  thing  that  costs  seven  hundred  and  fifty, 


MISS  MONTAGUE  USES  HER  OWN  FACE   291 

and  this  one  you  like  will  keep  just  as  good  time  as  that  one 
that  costs  six  hundred  more.  What  could  be  fairer  than 
that?" 

"All  right,"  said  the  customer.     "I'll  take  it." 

During  the  remaining  formalities  attending  the  purchase 
the  salesman,  observing  that  he  dealt  with  a  tolerant  man 
of  the  world,  became  even  franker.  "Of  course  no  one," 
he  remarked  pleasantly  while  couching  the  purchase  in  a 
chaste  bed  of  white  satin,  "expects  women's  bracelet- watches 
to  keep  time.  Not  even  the  women." 

"Want  'em  for  looks,"  said  the  customer. 

"You've  hit  it,  you've  hit  it!"  exclaimed  the  salesman 
delightedly,  as  if  the  customer  had  expertly  probed  the  heart 
of  a  world-old  mystery. 

He  had  now  but  to  await  his  great  moment.  The  final 
scenes  of  the  new  piece  were  shot.  Again  he  was  resting 
between  pictures.  As  the  date  for  showing  the  first  piece 
drew  near  he  was  puzzled  to  notice  that  both  Baird  and  the 
Montague  girl  curiously  avoided  any  mention  of  it.  Several 
times  he  referred  to  it  in  their  presence,  but  they  seemed 
resolutely  deaf  to  his  "Well,  I  see  the  big  show  opens  Monday 
night." 

He  wondered  if  there  could  be  some  recondite  bit  of  screen 
etiquette  which  he  was  infringing.  Actors  were  supersti- 
tious, he  knew.  Perhaps  it  boded  bad  luck  to  talk  of  a 
forthcoming  production.  Baird  and  the  girl  not  only  ignored 
his  reference  to  Hearts  on  Fire,  but  they  left  Baird  looking 
curiously  secretive  and  the  Montague  girl  looking  curiously 
frightened.  It  perplexed  him.  Once  he  was  smitten  with 
a  quick  fear  that  his  own  work  in  this  serious  drama  had  not 
met  the  expectations  of  the  manager. 

However,  in  this  he  must  be  wrong,  for  Baird  not  only 
continued  cordial  but,  as  the  girl  had  prophesied,  he  urged 
upon  his  new  actor  the  signing  of  a  long-time  contract. 
The  Montague  girl  had  insisted  upon  being  present  at  this 
interview,  after  forbidding  Merton  to  put  his  name  to  any 
contract  of  which  she  did  not  approve. 


MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

"I  told  Jeff  right  out  that  I  was  protecting  you,"  she  said. 
"He  understands  he's  got  to  be  reasonable." 

It  appeared,  as  they  set  about  Baird's  desk  in  the  Buckeye 
office,  that  she  had  been  right.  Baird  submitted  rather 
gracefully,  after  but  slight  demur,  to  the  terms  which  Miss 
Montague  imposed  in  behalf  of  her  protege.  Under  her 
approving  eye  Merton  Gill  affixed  his  name  to  a  contract 
by  which  Baird  was  to  pay  him  a  salary  of  two  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  a  week  for  three  years. 

It  seemed  an  incredible  sum.  As  he  blotted  his  signature 
he  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  pity  for  the  manager.  The 
Montague  girl  had  been  hard — hard  as  nails,  he  thought — 
and  Baird,  a  victim  to  his  own  good  nature,  would  probably 
lose  a  great  deal  of  money.  He  resolved  never  to  press  his 
advantage  over  a  man  who  had  been  caught  in  a  weak  mo- 
ment. 

"I  just  want  to  say,  Mr.  Baird,"  he  began,  "that  you 
needn't  be  afraid  I'll  hold  you  to  this  paper  if  you  find  it's 
too  much  money  to  pay  me.  I  wouldn't  have  taken  it  at 
all  if  it  hadn't  been  for  her. "  He  pointed  an  almost  accusing 
finger  at  the  girl. 

Baird  grinned;  the  girl  patted  his  hand.  Even  at  grave 
moments  she  was  a  patter.  "That's  all  right,  Son,"  she 
said  soothingly.  "Jeff's  got  all  the  best  of  it,  and  Jeff  knows 
it,  too.  Don't  you,  Jeff?" 

"Well "  Baird  considered.  "If  his  work  keeps  up 

I'm  not  getting  any  the  worst  of  it." 

"You  said  it.  You  know  very  well  what  birds  will  be 
looking  for  this  boy  next  week,  and  what  money  they'll  have 
in  their  mitts." 

"Maybe,"  said  Baird. 

"Well,  you  got  the  best  of  it,  and  you  deserve  to  have. 
I  ain't  ever  denied  that,  have  I?  You've  earned  the  best 
of  it  the  way  you've  handled  him.  All  I'm  here  for,  I  didn't 
want  you  to  have  too  much  the  best  of  it,  see?  I  think  I 
treated  you  well." 

"You're  all  right,  Flips." 


MISS  MONTAGUE  USES  HER  OWN  FACE    293 

"Well,  everything's  jake,  then?" 

"Everything's  jake  with  me." 

"All  right!  And  about  his  work  keeping  up — trust  your 

old  friend  and  well-wisher.  And  say,  Jeff "  Her  eyes 

gleamed  reminiscently.  "You  ain't  caught  him  dancing  yet. 
Well — wait,  that's  all.  We'll  put  on  a  fox-trot  in  the  next 
picture  that  will  sure  hog  the  footage." 

As  this  dialogue  progressed,  Merton  had  felt  more  and 
more  like  a  child  in  the  presence  of  grave  and  knowing  elders. 
They  had  seemed  to  forget  him,  to  forget  that  the  amazing 
contract  just  signed  bore  his  name.  He  thought  the  Mon- 
tague girl  was  taking  a  great  deal  upon  herself.  Her  face, 
he  noted,  when  she  had  stated  terms  to  Baird,  was  the  face 
she  wore  when  risking  a  small  bet  at  poker  on  a  high  hand. 
She  seemed  old,  indeed.  But  he  knew  how  he  was  going  to 
make  her  feel  younger.  In  his  pocket  was  a  gift  of  rare 
beauty,  even  if  you  couldn't  run  railway  trains  by  it.  And 
pretty  things  made  a  child  of  her. 

Baird  shook  hands  with  him  warmly  at  parting.  "It'll 
be  a  week  yet  before  we  start  on  the  new  piece.  Have  a 
good  time.  Oh,  yes,  and  drop  around  some  time  next  week 
if  there's  any  little  thing  you  want  to  talk  over — or  maybe 
don't  understand." 

He  wondered  if  this  were  a  veiled  reference  to  the  piece 
about  to  be  shown.  Certainly  nothing  more  definite  was 
said  about  it.  Yet  it  was  a  thing  that  must  be  of  momentous 
interest  to  the  manager,  and  the  manager  must  know  that 
it  would  be  thrilling  to  the  actor. 

He  left  with  the  Montague  girl,  who  had  become  suddenly 
sjrave  and  quiet.  But  outside  the  Holden  lot,  with  one  of 
those  quick  transitions  he  had  so  often  remarked  in  her,  she 
brightened  with  a  desperate  sort  of  gaiety. 

"I'll  tell  you  what!"  she  exclaimed.  "Let's  go  straight 
down  town — it'll  be  six  by  the  time  we  get  there — and  have 
the  best  dinner  money  can  buy:  lobster  and  chicken  and  va- 
nilla ice-cream  and  everything,  right  in  a  real  restaurant — 
none  of  this  tray  stuff — and  I'll  let  you  pay  for  it  all  by  your- 


294  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

self.  You  got  a  right  to,  after  that  contract.  And  we'll  be 
gay,  and  all  the  extra  people  that's  eating  in  the  restaurant'll 
think  we're  a  couple  o'  prominent  flim  actors.  How  about 
it?"  She  danced  at  his  side. 

"We'll  have  soup,  too,"  he  amended.  "One  of  those 
thick  ones  that  costs  about  sixty  cents.  Sixty  cents  just 
for  soup!"  he  repeated,  putting  a  hand  to  the  contract  that 
now  stiffened  one  side  of  his  coat. 

"Well,  just  this  once,"  she  agreed.  "It  might  be  for 
the  last  time." 

"Nothing  like  that,"  he  assured  her.  "More  you  spend, 
more  you  make — that's  my  motto." 

They  waited  for  a  city-bound  car,  sitting  again  on  the 
bench  that  was  so  outspoken.  "You  furnish  the  girl,  we 
furnish  the  home,"  it  shouted.  He  put  his  back  against 
several  of  the  bold  words  and  felt  of  the  bracelet-watch  in 
his  pocket. 

"It  might  be  the  last  time  for  me,"  insisted  the  girl. 
"I  feel  as  if  I  might  die  most  any  time.  My  health's  break- 
ing down  under  the  strain.  I  feel  kind  of  a  fever  coming  on 
right  this  minute." 

"Maybe  you  shouldn't  go  out." 

"Yes,  I  should." 

They  boarded  the  car  and  reached  the  real  restaurant,  a 
cozy  and  discreet  resort  up  a  flight  of  carpeted  stairs.  Side 
by  side  on  a  seat  that  ran  along  the  wall  they  sat  at  a  table 
for  two  and  the  dinner  was  ordered.  "Ruin  yourself  if 
you  want  to,"  said  the  girl  as  her  host  included  celery  and 
olives  in  the  menu.  "Go  on  and  order  prunes,  too,  for  all 
I  care.  I'm  reckless.  Maybe  I'll  never  have  another  din- 
ner, the  way  this  fever's  coming  on.  Feel  my  hand." 

Under  the  table  she  wormed  her  hand  into  his,  and  kept 
it  there  until  food  came.  "Do  my  eyes  look  very  feverish?" 
she  asked. 

"Not  so  very,"  he  assured  her,  covering  an  alarm  he  felt 
for  the  first  time.  She  did  appear  to  be  feverish,  and  the 
anxiety  of  her  manner  deepened  as  the  meal  progressed. 


MISS  MONTAGUE  USES  HER  OWN  FACE   295 

It  developed  quickly  that  she  had  but  scant  appetite  for  the 
choice  food  now  being  served.  She  could  only  taste  bits 
here  and  there.  Her  plates  were  removed  with  their  delicacies 
almost  intact.  Between  courses  her  hand  would  seek  his, 
gripping  it  as  if  in  some  nameless  dread.  He  became  worried 
about  her  state;  his  own  appetite  suffered. 

Once  she  said  as  her  hot  hand  clung  to  his,  "I  know  where 
you'll  be  to-morrow  night. "  Her  voice  grew  mournful,  des- 
pairing. "And  I  know  perfectly  well  it's  no  good  asking 
you  to  stay  away." 

He  let  this  pass.  Could  it  be  that  the  girl  was  already 
babbling  in  delirium? 

"And  all  the  time,"  she  presently  went  on,  "I'll  simply 
be  sick  a-bed,  picking  at  the  covers,  all  blue  around  the  gills. 
That'll  be  me,  while  you're  off  to  your  old  motion  picture 
— 'the  so-called  art  of  the  motion  picture,' "  she  concluded 
with  a  careful  imitation  of  her  father's  manner. 

He  tried  to  determine  whether  she  were  serious  or  jesting. 
You  never  could  tell  about  this  girl.  Whatever  it  was,  it 
made  him  uneasy. 

Outside  he  wished  to  take  her  home  in  a  taxi-cab,  but  she 
would  not  hear  to  this.  "We'll  use  the  town-car,  Gaston," 
she  announced  with  a  flash  of  her  old  manner  as  she  waved 
to  an  on-coming  street-car.  During  the  long  ride  that  fol- 
lowed she  was  silent  but  restless,  tapping  her  foot,  shifting 
in  her  seat,  darting  her  head  about.  The  one  thing  she  did 
steadily  was  to  clutch  his  arm. 

During  the  walk  from  the  car  to  the  Montague  house  she 
twice  indulged  in  her  little  dance  step,  even  as  she  clung  to 
the  arm,  but  each  time  she  seemed  to  think  better  of  it  and 
resumed  a  steady  pace,  her  head  down.  The  house  was 
dark.  Without  speaking  she  unlocked  the  door  and  drew 
him  into  the  little  parlour. 

"Stand  right  on  that  spot,"  she  ordered,  with  a  final 
pat  of  his  shoulder,  and  made  her  way  to  the  dining  room 
beyond  where  she  turned  on  a  single  light  that  faintly  illu- 
mined the  room  in  which  he  waited.  She  came  back  to  him, 


296  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

removed  the  small  cloth  hat,  tossed  it  to  a  chair,  and  faced 
him  silently. 

The  light  from  the  other  room  shone  across  her  eyes  and 
revealed  them  to  him  shadowy  and  mysterious.  Her  face 
was  set  in  some  ominous  control.  At  last  she  looked  away 
from  him  and  began  in  a  strained  voice,  "If  anything  happens 
to  me " 

He  thought  it  time  to  end  this  nonsense.  She  might  be 
feverish,  but  it  could  be  nothing  so  serious  as  she  was  intimat- 
ing. He  clutched  the  gift.  "Sarah,"  he  said  lightly, 
"I  got  a  little  something  for  you — see  what  I  mean?"  He 
thrust  the  package  into  her  weakly  yielding  hands. 

She  studied  it  in  the  dusk,  turning  it  over  and  over.  Then 
with  no  word  to  him  she  took  it  to  the  dining  room  where 
under  the  light  she  opened  it.  He  heard  a  smothered  excla- 
mation that  seemed  more  of  dismay  than  the  delight  he 
expected,  though  he  saw  that  she  was  holding  the  watch 
against  her  wrist.  She  came  back  to  the  dusk  of  the  parlour, 
beginning  on  the  way  one  of  her  little  skipping  dance  steps, 
which  she  quickly  suppressed.  She  was  replacing  the  watch 
on  its  splendid  couch  of  satin  and  closing  the  box. 

"I  never  saw  such  a  man!"  she  exclaimed  with  an  irri- 
tation that  he  felt  to  be  artificial.  "After  all  you've  been 
through,  I  should  think  you'd  have  learned  the  value  of 
money.  Anyway,  it's  too  beautiful  for  me.  And  anyway, 
I  couldn't  take  it — not  to-night,  anyway.  And  anyway " 

Her  voice  had  acquired  a  huskiness  in  this  speech  that 
now  left  her  incoherent,  and  the  light  revealed  a  wetness  hi 
her  eyes.  She  dabbed  at  them  with  a  handkerchief. 

"Of  course  you  can  take  it  to-night,"  he  said  in  masterful 
tones,  "after  all  you've  done  for  me." 

"Now  you  listen,"  she  began.  "You  don't  know  all  I've 
done  for  you.  You  don't  know  me  at  all.  Suppose  some- 
thing came  out  about  me  that  you  didn't  think  I'd  'a'  been 
guilty  of.  You  can't  ever  tell  about  people  in  this  business. 
You  don't  know  me  at  all — not  one  little  bit.  I  might  'a' 
done  lots  of  things  that  would  turn  you  against  me.  I  tell 


MISS  MONTAGUE  USES  HER  OWN  FACE   297 

you  you  got  to  wait  and  find  out  about  things.  I  haven't 
the  nerve  to  tell  you,  but  you'll  find  out  soon  enough " 

The  expert  in  photoplays  suffered  a  sudden  illumination. 
This  was  a  scene  he  could  identify — a  scene  in  which  the 
woman  trembled  upon  the  verge  of  revealing  to  the  man  cer- 
tain sinister  details  of  her  past,  spurred  thereto  by  a  scoun- 
drel who  blackmailed  her.  He  studied  the  girl  in  a  new  light. 
Undoubtedly,  from  her  words,  he  saw  one  panic-stricken  by 
the  threatened  exposure  of  some  dreadful  complication  in 
her  own  past.  Certainly  she  was  suffering. 

"I  don't  care  if  this  fever  does  carry  me  off,"  she  went  on. 
"I  know  you  could  never  feel  the  same  toward  me  after  you 
found  out " 

Again  she  was  dabbing  at  her  eyes,  this  time  with  the 
sleeve  of  her  jacket.  A  suffering  woman  stood  before  him. 
She  who  had  always  shown  herself  so  competent  to  meet 
trouble  with  laughing  looks  was  being  overthrown  by  this 
nameless  horror.  Suddenly  he  knew  that  to  him  it  didn't 
matter  so  very  much  what  crime  she  had  been  guilty  of. 

"I  don't  care  what  you've  done,"  he  said,  his  own  voice 
husky.  She  continued  to  weep. 

He  felt  himself  grow  hot.  "Listen  here,  Kid" — He  now 
spoke  with  more  than  a  touch  of  the  bully  in  his  tone — 
"stop  this  nonsense.  You — you  come  here  and  give  me  a 
good  big  kiss — see  what  I  mean?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  from  wet  eyes,  and  amazingly 
through  her  anguish  she  grinned.  "You  win!"  she  said, 
and  came  to  him. 

He  was  now  the  masterful  one.  He  took  her  protectingly 
in  his  arms.  He  kissed  her,  though  with  no  trace  of  the  Par- 
malee  technique.  His  screen  experience  might  never  have 
been.  It  was  more  like  the  dead  days  of  Edwina  May 
Pulver. 

"Now  you  stop  it,"  he  soothed — "all  this  nonsense!" 
His  cheek  was  against  hers  and  his  arms  held  her.  "What 
do  I  care  what  you've  done  in  your  past — what  do  I  care? 
And  listen  here,  Kid" — There  was  again  the  brutal  note 


298  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

of  the  bully  in  his  voice — "don't  ever  do  any  more  of  those 
stunts — see  what  I  mean?  None  of  that  falling  off  street- 
cars or  houses  or  anything.  Do  you  hear?" 

He  felt  that  he  was  being  masterful  indeed.  He  had 
swept  her  off  her  feet.  Probably  now  she  would  weep  vio- 
lently and  sob  out  her  confession.  But  a  moment  later  he 
was  reflecting,  as  he  had  so  many  times  before  reflected, 
that  you  never  could  tell  about  the  girl.  In  his  embrace 
she  had  become  astoundingly  calm.  That  emotional  crisis 
threatening  to  beat  down  all  her  reserves  had  passed.  She 
reached  up  and  almost  meditatively  pushed  back  the  hair 
from  his  forehead,  regarding  him  with  eyes  that  were  still 
shadowed  but  dry.  Then  she  gave  him  a  quick  little  hug 
and  danced  away.  It  was  no  time  for  dancing,  he  thought. 

"Now  you  sit  down,"  she  ordered.  She  was  almost  gay 
again,  yet  with  a  nervous,  desperate  gaiety  that  would  at 
moments  die  to  a  brooding  solemnity.  "And  listen,"  she 
began,  when  he  had  seated  himself  in  bewilderment  at  her 
sudden  change  of  mood,  "you'll  be  off  to  your  old  motion 
picture  to-morrow  night,  and  I'll  be  here  sick  in  bed " 

"I  won't  go  if  you  don't  want  me  to,"  he  put  in  quickly. 

"That's  no  good;  you'd  have  to  go  sometime.  The  quicker 
the  better,  I  guess.  I'll  go  myself  sometime,  if  I  ever  get 
over  this  disease  that's  coming  on  me.  Anyway,  you  go, 

and  then  if  you  ever  see  me  again  you  can  give  me  this " 

She  quickly  came  to  put  the  watch  back  in  his  hands.  "Yes, 
yes,  take  it.  I  won't  have  it  till  you  give  it  to  me  again,  if 
I'm  still  alive."  She  held  up  repulsing  hands.  "Now  we've 
had  one  grand  little  evening,  and  I'll  let  you  go."  She 
went  to  stand  by  the  door. 

He  arose  and  stood  by  her.  "All  this  nonsense!"  he 
grumbled.  "I — I  won't  stand  for  it — see  what  I  mean?" 
Very  masterfully  again  he  put  his  arms  about  her.  "Say," 
he  demanded,  "are  you  afraid  of  me  like  you  said  you'd 
always  been  afraid  of  men?" 

"Yes,  I  am.  I'm  afraid  of  you  a  whole  lot.  I  don't  know 
how  you'll  take  it." 


MISS  MONTAGUE  USES  HEK  OWN  FACE   299 

"Take  what?" 

"Oh,  anything — anything  you're  going  to  get." 

"Well,  you  don't  seem  to  be  afraid  of  me." 

"I  am,  more  than  any  one." 

"Well,  Sarah,  you  needn't  be — no  matter  what  you've 
done.  You  just  forget  it  and  give  me  a  good  big " 

"I'm  glad  I'm  using  my  own  face  in  this  scene,"  murmured 
Sarah. 

Down  at  the  corner,  waiting  for  his  car,  he  paced  back  and 
forth  in  front  of  the  bench  with  its  terse  message — "You 
furnish  the  girl,  we  furnish  the  house" — Sarah  was  a  funny 
little  thing  with  all  that  nonsense  about  what  he  would  find 
out.  Little  he  cared  if  she'd  done  something — forgery, 
murder,  anything. 

He  paused  in  his  stride  and  addressed  the  vacant  bench: 
"Well,  I've  done  my  part." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

REELS  —  500  LAUGHS*' 


"TT  OCCURRED  to  him  the  next  morning  that  he  might 
have  taken  too  lightly  Sarah's  foreboding  of  illness. 
JL  Reviewing  her  curious  behaviour  he  thought  it  possible 
she  might  be  in  for  something  serious. 

But  a  midday  telephone  call  at  the  Montague  home 
brought  assurances  from  the  mother  that  quieted  this  fear. 
Sarah  complained  of  not  feeling  well,  and  was  going  to 
spend  a  quiet  day  at  home.  But  Mrs.  Montague  was  cer- 
tain it  was  nothing  serious.  No;  she  had  no  temperature. 
No  fever  at  all.  She  was  just  having  a  spell  of  thinking  about 
things,  sort  of  grouchy  like.  She  had  been  grouchy  to  both 
her  parents.  Probably  because  she  wasn't  working.  No, 
she  said  she  wouldn't  come  to  the  telephone.  She  also  said 
she  was  in  a  bad  way  and  might  pass  out  any  minute.  But 
that  was  just  her  kidding.  It  was  kind  of  Mr.  Gill  to  call 
up.  He  wasn't  to  worry. 

He  continued  to  worry,  however,  until  the  nearness  of 
his  screen  debut  drove  Sarah  to  the  back  of  his  mind.  Un- 
doubtedly it  was  just  her  nonsense.  And  in  the  meantime, 
that  long-baffled  wish  to  see  himself  in  a  serious  drama  was 
about  to  be  gratified  in  fullest  measure.  He  was  glad  the 
girl  had  not  suggested  that  she  be  with  him  on  this  tremen- 
dous occasion.  He  wanted  to  be  quite  alone,  solitary  in 
the  crowd,  free  to  enjoy  his  own  acting  without  pretense  of 
indifference. 

The  Pattersons,  of  course,  were  another  matter.  He  had 
told  them  of  his  approaching  debut  and  they  were  making 
an  event  of  it.  They  would  attend,  though  he  would  not  sit 

300 


"FIVE  REELS— 500  LAUGHS"  301 

with  them.  Mr.  Patterson  in  his  black  suit,  his  wife  in 
society  raiment,  would  sit  downstairs  and  would  doubtless 
applaud  their  lodger;  but  he  would  be  remote  from  them;  in 
a  far  corner  of  the  topmost  gallery,  he  first  thought,  for 
Hearts  on  Fire  was  to  be  shown  in  one  of  the  big  down-town 
theatres  where  a  prominent  member  of  its  cast  could  lose 
himself. 

He  had  told  the  Pattersons  a  little  about  the  story.  It 
was  pretty  pathetic  in  spots,  he  said,  but  it  all  came  right  in 
the  end,  and  there  were  some  good  Western  scenes.  When 
the  Pattersons  said  he  must  be  very  good  in  it,  he  found 
himself  unable  to  achieve  the  light  fashion  of  denial  and 
protestation  that  would  have  become  him.  He  said  he  had 
struggled  to  give  the  world  something  better  and  finer. 

For  a  moment  he  was  moved  to  confess  that  Mrs.  Patter- 
son, in  the  course  of  his  struggles,  had  come  close  to  losing 
ten  dollars,  but  he  mastered  the  wild  impulse.  Some  day, 
after  a  few  more  triumphs,  he  might  laughingly  confide  this 
to  her. 

The  day  was  long.  Slothfully  it  dragged  hours  that 
seemed  endless  across  the  company  of  shining  dreams  that 
he  captained.  He  was  early  at  the  theatre,  first  of  early 
comers,  and  entered  quickly,  foregoing  even  a  look  at.  the 
huge  lithographs  in  front  that  would  perhaps  show  his  very 
self  in  some  gripping  scene. 

With  an  empty  auditorium  to  choose  from,  he  compromised 
on  a  balcony  seat.  Down  below  would  doubtless  be  other 
members  of  the  company,  probably  Baird  himself,  and  he 
did  not  wish  to  be  recognized.  He  must  be  alone  with 
his  triumph.  And  the  loftier  gallery  would  be  too  far 
away. 

The  house  filled  slowly.  People  sauntered  to  their  seats 
as  if  the  occasion  were  ordinary;  even  when  the  seats  were 
occupied  and  the  orchestra  had  played,  there  ensued  the 
annoying  delays  of  an  educational  film  and  a  travelogue. 
Upon  this  young  actor's  memory  would  be  forever  seared  the 
information  that  the  conger  eel  lays  fifteen  million  eggs  at 


302  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

one  time  and  that  the  inhabitants  of  Upper  Burmah  have 
quaint  native  pastimes.  These  things  would  stay  with  him, 
but  they  were  unimportant.  Even  the  prodigal  fecundity 
of  the  conger  eel  left  him  cold. 

He  gripped  the  arms  of  his  seat  when  the  cast  of  Hearts 
on  Fire  was  flung  to  the  screen.  He  caught  his  own  name 
instantly,  and  was  puzzled.  "Clifford  Armytage — By 
Himself."  Someone  had  bungled  that,  but  no  matter. 
Then  at  once  he  was  seeing  that  first  scene  of  his.  As  a 
popular  screen  idol  he  breakfasted  in  his  apartment,  served 
by  a  valet  who  was  a  hero  worshipper. 

He  was  momentarily  disquieted  by  the  frank  adoration 
of  the  cross-eyed  man  in  this  part.  While  acting  the  scene, 
he  remembered  now  that  he  had  not  always  been  able  to 
observe  his  valet.  There  were  moments  when  he  seemed 
over-emphatic.  The  valet  was  laughed  at.  The  watcher's 
sympathy  went  out  to  Baird,  who  must  be  seeing  his  serious 
effort  taken  too  lightly. 

There  came  the  scene  where  he  looked  at  the  photograph 
album.  But  now  his  turning  of  the  pages  was  interspersed 
with  close-ups  of  the  portraits  he  regarded  so  admiringly. 
And  these  astonishingly  proved  to  be  enlarged  stills  of 
Clifford  Armytage,  the  art  studies  of  Lowell  Hardy.  It  was 
puzzling.  On  the  screen  he  capably  beamed  the  fondest 
admiration,  almost  reverent  in  its  intensity — and  there 
would  appear  the  still  of  Merton  bidding  an  emotional  fare- 
well to  his  horse.  The  very  novelty  of  it  held  him  for  a 
moment — Gashwiler's  Dexter  actually  on  the  screen!  He 
was  aroused  by  the  hearty  laughter  of  an  immense  audience. 

"It's  Parmalee,"  announced  a  hoarse  neighbour  on  his 
right.  "He's  imitatin'  Harold!  Say,  the  kid's  clever!" 

The  laughter  continued  during  the  album  scene.  He 
thought  of  Baird,  somewhere  in  that  audience,  suffering 
because  his  play  was  made  fun  of.  He  wished  he  could 
remind  him  that  scenes  were  to  follow  which  would  surely  not 
be  taken  lightly.  For  himself,  he  was  feeling  that  at  least 
his  strong  likeness  to  Parmalee  had  been  instantly  admitted. 


"FIVE  REELS— 500  LAUGHS"  303 

They  were  laughing,  as  the  Montague  girl  had  laughed  that 
first  morning,  because  the  resemblance  was  so  striking. 

But  now  on  the  screen,  after  the  actor's  long  fond  look  at 
himself,  came  the  words,  "The  Only  Man  He  Ever  Loved." 
Laughter  again.  The  watcher  felt  himself  grow  hot.  Had 
Baird  been  betrayed  by  one  of  his  staff? 

The  scene  with  the  letters  followed.  Clothes  baskets  of 
letters.  His  own  work,  as  he  opened  a  few  from  the  top, 
was  all  that  he  could  have  wished.  He  was  finely  Harold 
Parmalee,  and  again  the  hoarse  neighbour  whispered,  "Ain't 
he  got  Parmalee  dead,  though?" 

"Poor,  silly  little  girls!"  the  screen  exclaimed,  and  the 
audience  became  noisy.  Undoubtedly  it  was  a  tribute  to  his 
perfection  in  the  Parmalee  manner.  But  he  was  glad  that 
now  there  would  come  acting  at  which  no  one  could  laugh. 

There  was  the  delicatessen  shop,  the  earnest  young  cashier 
and  his  poor  old  mother  who  mopped.  He  saw  himself 
embrace  her  and  murmur  words  of  encouragement,  but 
incredibly  there  were  giggles  from  the  audience,  doubtless 
from  base  souls  who  were  impervious  to  pathos.  The  giggles 
coalesced  to  a  general  laugh  when  the  poor  old  mother,  again 
mopping  on  the  floor,  was  seen  to  say,  "I  hate  these  mopping 
mothers.  You  get  took  with  house-maid's  knee  in  the 
first  reel." 

Again  he  was  seized  with  a  fear  that  one  of  Baird's  staff 
had  been  clumsy  with  subtitles.  His  eyes  flew  to  his  own 
serious  face  when  the  silly  words  had  gone. 

The  drama  moved.  Indeed  the  action  of  the  shadows  was 
swifter  than  he  supposed  it  would  be.  The  dissolute  son  of 
the  proprietor  came  on  to  dust  the  wares  and  to  elicit  a 
laugh  when  he  performed  a  bit  of  business  that  had  escaped 
Merton  at  the  time.  Against  the  wire  screen  that  covered 
the  largest  cheese  on  the  counter  he  placed  a  placard,  "Dan- 
gerous. Do  not  Annoy." 

Probably  Baird  had  not  known  of  this  clowning.  And 
there  came  another  subtitle  that  would  dismay  Baird  when 
the  serious  young  bookkeeper  enacted  his  scene  with  the 


304  MERTON  OF  THE  HOMES 

proprietor's  lovely  daughter,  for  she  was  made  to  say:  "You 
love  above  your  station.  Ours  is  125th  Street;  you  get  off 
at  59th." 

He  was  beginning  to  feel  confused.  A  sense  of  loss,  of 
panic,  smote  him.  His  own  part  was  the  intensely  serious 
thing  he  had  played,  but  in  some  subtle  way  even  that  was 
being  made  funny.  He  could  not  rush  to  embrace  his  old 
mother  without  exciting  laughter. 

The  robbery  of  the  safe  was  effected  by  the  dissolute  son, 
the  father  broke  in  upon  the  love  scene,  discovered  the  loss 
of  his  money,  and  accused  an  innocent  man.  Merton  felt 
that  he  here  acted  superbly.  His  long  look  at  the  girl  for 
whom  he  was  making  the  supreme  sacrifice  brought  tears 
to  his  own  eyes,  but  still  the  witless  audience  snickered. 

Unobserved  by  the  others,  the  old  mother  now  told  her 
son  the  whereabouts  of  the  stolen  money,  and  he  saw  himself 
secure  the  paper  sack  of  bills  from  the  ice-box.  He  de- 
tected the  half-guilty  look  of  which  he  had  spoken  to  Baird. 
Then  he  read  his  own  incredible  speech — "I  better  take  this 
cool  million.  It  might  get  that  poor  lad  into  trouble!" 

Again  the  piece  had  been  hurt  by  a  wrong  subtitle.  But 
perhaps  the  audience  laughed  because  it  was  accustomed  to 
laugh  at  Baird's  productions.  Perhaps  it  had  not  realized 
that  he  was  now  attempting  one  of  the  worth-while  things. 

This  reasoning  was  refuted  as  he  watched  what  occurred 
after  he  had  made  his  escape. 

His  flight  was  discovered,  policemen  entered,  a  rapid 
search  behind  counters  ensued.  In  the  course  of  this  the 
wire  screen  over  the  biggest  cheese  was  knocked  off  the 
counter.  The  cheese  leaped  to  the  floor,  and  the  searchers, 
including  the  policemen,  fled  in  panic  through  the  front  door. 
The  Montague  girl,  the  last  to  escape,  was  seen  to  announce, 
"The  big  cheese  is  loose — it's  eating  all  the  little  ones!" 

A  band  of  intrepid  firemen,  protected  by  masks  and  armed 
with  axes,  rushed  in.  A  terrific  struggle  ensued.  The  deli- 
catessen shop  was  wrecked.  And  through  it  all  the  old 
mother  continued  to  mop  the  floor. 


"FIVE  REELS— 500  LAUGHS"  305 

Merton  Gill,  who  had  first  grown  hot,  was  now  cold.  Icy 
drops  were  on  his  chilled  brow.  How  had  Hearts  on  Fire 
gone  wrong? 

Then  they  were  in  the  great  open  spaces  of  the  Come  All 
Ye  dance  hall.  There  was  the  young  actor  in  his  Buck 
Benson  costume,  protecting  his  mother  from  the  brutality  of 
a  Mexican,  getting  his  man  later  by  firing  directly  into  a 
mirror — Baird  had  said  it  would  come  right  in  the  exposure, 
but  it  hadn't.  And  the  witless  cackled. 

He  saw  his  struggle  with  the  detective.  With  a  real 
thrill  he  saw  himself  bear  his  opponent  to  the  ground,  then 
hurl  him  high  and  far  into  the  air,  to  be  impaled  upon  the 
antlers  of  an  elk's  head  suspended  back  of  the  bar.  He  saw 
himself  lightly  dust  his  sleeves  after  this  feat,  and  turn  aside 
with  the  words,  "That's  one  Lodge  he  can  join." 

Then  followed  a  scene  he  had  not  been  allowed  to  witness. 
There  swung  Marcel,  the  detective,  played  too  emphatically 
by  the  cross-eyed  man.  An  antler  point  suspended  him  by 
the  seat  of  his  trousers.  He  hung  limply  a  moment,  then 
took  from  his  pocket  a  saw  with  which  he  reached  up  to 
contrive  his  release.  He  sawed  through  the  antler  and 
fell.  He  tried  to  stand  erect,  but  appeared  to  find  this 
impossible.  A  subtitle  announced:  "He  had  put  a  per- 
manent wave  in  Marcel." 

This  base  fooling  was  continuously  blown  upon  by  gales 
of  stupid  laughter.  But  not  yet  did  Merton  Gill  know  the 
worst.  The  merriment  persisted  through  his  most  affecting 
bit,  the  farewell  to  his  old  pal  outside — how  could  they 
have  laughed  at  a  simple  bit  of  pathos  like  that?  But  the 
watching  detective  was  seen  to  weep  bitterly. 

"Look  a*  him  doin'  Buck  Benson,"  urged  the  hoarse 
neighbour  gleefully.  "You  got  to  hand  it  to  that  kid — say, 
who  is  he,  anyway?" 

Followed  the  thrilling  leap  from  a  second-story  window  to 
the  back  of  the  waiting  pal.  The  leap  began  thrillingly,  but 
not  only  was  it  shown  that  the  escaping  man  had  donned  a 
coat  and  a  false  mustache  in  the  course  of  his  fall,  but  at  its 


306  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

end  he  was  revealed  slowly,  very  slowly,  clambering  into  the 
saddle! 

They  had  used  here,  he  saw,  one  of  those  slow  cameras 
that  seem  to  suspend  all  action  interminably,  a  cruel  device 
in  this  instance.  And  for  his  actual  escape,  when  he  had 
ridden  the  horse  beyond  camera  range  at  a  safe  walk,  they 
had  used  another  camera  that  gave  the  effect  of  intense 
speed.  The  old  horse  had  walked,  but  with  an  air  of  swift- 
ness that  caused  the  audience  intense  delight. 

Entered  Marcel,  the  detective,  in  another  scene  Merton  had 
not  watched.  He  emerged  from  the  dance  hall  to  confront 
a  horse  that  remained,  an  aged  counterpart  of  the  horse 
Merton  had  ridden  off.  Marcel  stared  intently  into  the 
beast's  face,  whereupon  it  reared  and  plunged  as  if  terrified 
by  the  spectacle  of  the  cross-eyed  man. 

Merton  recalled  the  horse  in  the  village  that  had  seemed 
to  act  so  intelligently.  Probably  a  shot-gun  had  stimulated 
the  present  scene.  The  detective  thereupon  turned  aside, 
hastily  donned  his  false  mustache  and  Sherlock  Holmes 
cap,  and  the  deceived  horse  now  permitted  him  to  mount. 
He,  too,  walked  off  to  the  necromancy  of  a  lens  that  multi- 
plied his  pace  a  thousandfold.  And  the  audience  rocked  in 
its  seats. 

One  horse  still  remained  before  the  dance-hall.  The  old 
mother  emerged.  With  one  anguished  look  after  the  de- 
tective, she  gathered  up  her  disreputable  skirts  and  left  the 
platform  in  a  flying  leap  to  land  in  the  saddle.  There  was 
no  trickery  about  the  speed  at  which  her  horse,  belaboured 
with  the  mop-pail,  galloped  in  pursuit  of  the  others.  A  sub- 
title recited — "She  has  watched  her  dear  ones  leave  the 
old  nest  flat.  Now  she  must  go  out  over  the  hills  and  mop 
the  other  side  of  them!" 

Now  came  the  sensational  capture  by  lasso  of  the  de- 
tective. But  the  captor  had  not  known  that,  as  he  dragged 
his  quarry  at  the  rope's  end,  the  latter  had  somehow  possessed 
himself  of  a  sign  which  he  later  walked  in  with,  a  sign 
reading,  "Join  the  Good  Roads  Movement!"  nor  that  the 


"FIVE  REELS— 500  LAUGHS"  307 

faithful  old  mother  had  ridden  up  to  deposit  her  inverted 
mop-pail  over  his  head. 

Merton  Gill  had  twice  started  to  leave.  He  wanted  to 
leave.  But  each  time  he  found  himself  chained4  there  by  the 
evil  fascination  of  this  monstrous  parody.  He  remained  to 
learn  that  the  Montague  girl  had  come  out  to  the  great  open 
spaces  to  lead  a  band  of  train-robbers  from  the  "Q.  T. 
ranche." 

He  saw  her  ride  beside  a  train  and  cast  her  lasso  over  the 
stack  of  the  locomotive.  He  saw  her  pony  settle  back  on 
its  haunches  while  the  rope  grew  taut  and  the  train  was 
forced  to  a  halt.  He  saw  the  passengers  lined  up  by  the 
wayside  and  forced  to  part  with  their  valuables.  Later, 
when  the  band  returned  to  the  ranche  with  their  booty,  he 
saw  the  dissolute  brother,  after  the  treasure  was  divided, 
winning  it  back  to  the  family  coffers  with  his  dice.  He  saw 
the  stricken  father  playing  golf  on  his  bicycle  in  grotesque 
imitation  of  a  polo  player. 

And  still,  so  incredible  the  revealment,  he  had  not  in 
the  first  shock  of  it  seemed  to  consider  Baird  in  any  way  to 
blame.  Baird  had  somehow  been  deceived  by  his  actors. 
Yet  a  startling  suspicion  was  forming  amid  his  mental 
flurries,  a  suspicion  that  bloomed  to  certainty  when  he  saw 
himself  the  ever-patient  victim  of  the  genuine  hidalgo  spurs. 

Baird  had  said  he  wanted  the  close-ups  merely  for  use  in 
determining  how  the  spurs  could  be  mastered,  yet  here  they 
were.  Merton  Gill  caught  the  spurs  in  undergrowth  and 
caught  them  in  his  own  chaps,  arising  from  each  fall  with 
a  look  of  gentle  determination  that  appealed  strongly  to  the 
throng  of  lackwits.  They  shrieked  at  each  of  his  failures, 
even  when  he  ran  to  greet  his  pictured  sweetheart  and  fell 
headlong.  They  found  the  comedy  almost  unbearable  when 
at  Baird's  direction  he  had  begun  to  toe  in  as  he  walked. 
And  he  had  fallen  clumsily  again  when  he  flew  to  that  last 
glad  rendezvous  where  the  pair  were  irised  out  in  a  love 
triumphant,  while  the  old  mother  mopped  a  large  rock  in  the 
background. 


SOS  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

An  intervening  close-up  of  this  rock  revealed  her  tearful 
face  as  she  cleansed  the  granite  surface.  Above  her  loomed 
a  painted  exhortation  to  "Use  Wizard  Spine  Pills."  And  of 
this  pathetic  old  creature  he  was  made  to  say,  even  as  he 
clasped  the  beloved  in  his  arms — "Remember,  she  is  my 
mother.  I  will  not  desert  her  now  just  because  I  am  rich 
and  grand!" 

At  last  he  was  free.  Amid  applause  that  was  long  and 
sincere  he  gained  his  feet  and  pushed  a  way  out.  His 
hoarse  neighbour  was  saying,  "Who  is  the  kid,  anyway? 
Ain't  he  a  wonder!" 

He  pulled  his  hat  down,  dreading  he  might  be  recognized 
and  shamed  before  these  shallow  fools.  He  froze  with  the 
horror  of  what  he  had  been  unable  to  look  away  from. 
The  ignominy  of  it!  And  now,  after  those  spurs,  he  knew 
full  well  that  Baird  had  betrayed  him.  As  the  words  shaped 
in  his  mind,  a  monstrous  echo  of  them  reverberated  through 
its  caverns — the  Montague  girl  had  betrayed  him! 

He  understood  her  now,  and  burned  with  memories  of 
her  uneasiness  the  night  before.  She  had  been  suffering 
acutely  from  remorse;  she  had  sought  to  cover  it  with  pleas 
of  physical  illness.  At  the  moment  he  was  conscious  of  no 
feeling  toward  her  save  wonder  that  she  could  so  coolly  have 
played  him  false.  But  the  thing  was  not  to  be  questioned. 
She — and  Baird — had  made  a  fool  of  him. 

As  he  left  the  theatre,  the  crowd  about  him  commented 
approvingly  on  the  picture:  "Who's  this  new  comedian?" 
he  heard  a  voice  inquire.  But  "Ain't  he  a  wonder!"  seemed 
to  be  the  sole  reply. 

He  flushed  darkly.  So  they  thought  him  a  comedian. 
Well,  Baird  wouldn't  think  so — not  after  to-morrow.  He 
paused  outside  the  theatre  now  to  study  the  lithograph  in 
colours.  There  he  hurled  Marcel  to  the  antlers  of  the  elk. 
The  announcement  was  Hearts  on  Fire!  A  Jeff  Baird 
Comedy.  Five  Reels— 500  Laughs." 

Baird,  he  sneeringly  reflected,  had  kept  faith  with  his 
patrons  if  not  with  one  of  his  actors.  But  how  he  had  pro- 


"FIVE  REELS— 500  LAUGHS"  309 

faned  the  sunlit  glories  of  the  great  open  West  and  its  virile 
drama!  And  the  spurs,  as  he  had  promised  the  unsuspecting 
wearer,  had  stood  out!  The  horror  of  it,  blinding,  deso- 
lating! 

And  he  had  as  good  as  stolen  that  money  himself,  taking 
it  out  to  the  great  open  spaces  to  spend  in  a  bar-room. 
Baird's  serious  effort  had  turned  out  to  be  a  wild,  incon- 
sequent farrago  of  the  most  painful  nonsense. 

But  it  was  over  for  Merton  Gill.  The  golden  bowl  was 
broken,  the  silver  cord  was  loosed.  To-morrow  he  would 
tear  up  Baird's  contract  and  hurl  the  pieces  in  Baird's  face. 
As  to  the  Montague  girl,  that  deceiving  jade  was  hopeless. 
Never  again  could  he  trust  her. 

In  a  whirling  daze  of  resentment  he  boarded  a  car  for  the 
journey  home.  A  group  seated  near  him  still  laughed  about 
Hearts  on  Fire.  "I  thought  he'd  kill  me  with  those  spurs," 
declared  an  otherwise  sanely  behaving  young  woman — 
"that  hurt,  embarrassed  look  on  his  face  every  time  he'd 
get  up!" 

He  cowered  in  his  seat.  And  he  remembered  another 
ordeal  he  must  probably  face  when  he  reached  home.  He 
hoped  the  Pattersons  would  be  in  bed,  and  walked  up  and 
down  before  the  gate  when  he  saw  the  house  still  alight. 
But  the  light  stayed,  and  at  last  he  nerved  himself  for  a 
possible  encounter.  He  let  himself  in  softly,  still  hoping 
he  could  gain  his  room  undiscovered;  but  Mrs.  Patterson 
framed  herself  in  the  lighted  door  of  the  living  room  and 
became  exclamatory  at  sight  of  him. 

And  he  who  had  thought  to  stand  before  these  people  in 
shame  to  receive  their  condolences  now  perceived  that  his 
trial  would  be  of  another  but  hardly  less-distressing  sort. 
For  somehow,  so  dense  were  these  good  folks,  that  he  must 
seem  to  be  not  displeased  with  his  own  performance.  Amaz- 
ingly they  congratulated  him,  struggling  with  reminiscent 
laughter  as  they  did  so. 

"And  you  never  told  us  you  was  one  of  them  funny 
comedians,"  chided  Mrs.  Patterson.  "We  thought  you 


310  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

was  just  a  beginner,  and  here  you  got  the  biggest  part  in  the 
picture!  Say,  the  way  you  acted  when  you'd  pick  yourself 
up  after  them  spurs  threw  you — I'll  wake  up  in  the  night 
laughing  at  that." 

"And  the  way  he  kept  his  face  so  straight  when  them 
other  funny  ones  was  cutting  their  capers  all  around  him," 
observed  Mr.  Patterson. 

"Yes!  wasn't  it  wonderful,  Jed,  the  way  he  never  let  on, 
keeping  his  face  as  serious  as  if  he'd  been  in  a  serious  play?" 

"I  like  to  fell  off  my  seat,"  added  Mr.  Patterson. 

"I'll  tell  you  something,  Mr.  Armytage,"  began  Mrs. 
Patterson  with  a  suddenly  serious  manner  of  her  own,  "I 
never  been  one  to  flatter  folks  to  their  faces  unless  I  felt  it 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart — I  never  been  that  kind;  when 
I  tell  a  person  such-and-such  about  themselves  they  can 
take  it  for  the  truth's  own  truth;  so  you  can  believe  me  now 
— I  saw  lots  of  times  in  that  play  to-night  when  you  was 
even  funnier  than  the  cross-eyed  man." 

The  young  actor  was  regarding  her  strangely;  seemingly 
he  wished  to  acknowledge  this  compliment  but  could  find  no 
suitable  words.  "Yes,  you  can  blush  and  hem  and  haw," 
went  on  his  critic,  "but  any  one  knows  me  '11  tell  you  I  mean 
it  when  I  talk  that  way — yes,  sir,  funnier  than  the  cross-eyed 
man  himself.  My,  I  guess  the  neighbours  '11  be  talking  soon's 
they  find  out  we  got  someone  as  important  as  you  be  in  our 
spare-room — and,  Mr.  Armytage,  I  want  you  to  give  me  a 
signed  photograph  of  yourself,  if  you'll  be  so  good." 

He  escaped  at  last,  dizzy  from  the  maelstrom  of  conflicting 
emotions  that  had  caught  and  whirled  him.  It  had  been 
impossible  not  to  appear,  and  somehow  difficult  not  to  feel, 
gratified  under  this  heartfelt  praise.  He  had  been  bound 
to  appear  pleased  but  incredulous,  even  when  she  pro- 
nounced him  superior,  at  times,  to  the  cross-eyed  man — 
though  the  word  she  used  was  "funnier." 

Betrayed  by  his  friends,  stricken,  disconsolate,  in  a  panic 
of  despair,  he  had  yet  seemed  glad  to  hear  that  he  had  been 
"funny."  He  flew  to  the  sanctity  of  his  room.  Not  again 


"FIVE  REELS— 500  LAUGHS"  311 

could  he  bear  to  be  told  that  the  acting  which  had  been  his 
soul's  high  vision  was  a  thing  for  merriment. 

He  paced  his  room  a  long  time,  a  restless,  defenceless 
victim  to  recurrent  visions  of  his  shame.  Implacably  they 
returned  to  torture  him.  Reel  after  reel  of  the  ignoble 
stuff,  spawned  by  the  miscreant,  Baird,  flashed  before  him; 
a  world  of  base  painted  shadows  in  which  he  had  been  the 
arch  offender. 

Again  and  again  he  tried  to  make  clear  to  himself  just 
why  his  own  acting  should  have  caused  mirth.  Surely  he 
had  been  serious;  he  had  given  the  best  that  was  in  him. 
And  the  groundlings  had  guffawed! 

Perhaps  it  was  a  puzzle  he  could  never  solve.  And  now  he 
first  thought  of  the  new  piece. 

This  threw  him  into  fresh  panic.  What  awful  things,  with 
his  high  and  serious  acting,  would  he  have  been  made  to  do 
in  that?  Patiently,  one  by  one,  he  went  over  the  scenes  in 
which  he  had  appeared.  Dazed,  confused,  his  recollection 
could  bring  to  him  little  that  was  ambiguous  in  them.  But 
also  he  had  played  through  Hearts  on  Fire  with  little  sus- 
picion of  its  low  intentions. 

He  went  to  bed  at  last,  though  to  toss  another  hour  in 
fruitless  effort  to  solve  this  puzzle  and  to  free  his  eyes  of 
those  flashing  infamies  of  the  night.  Ever  and  again  as  he 
seemed  to  become  composed,  free  at  last  of  tormenting 
visions,  a  mere  subtitle  would  flash  in  his  brain,  as  where 
the  old  mother,  when  he  first  punished  her  insulter,  was 
made  by  the  screen  to  call  out,  "Kick  him  on  the  knee-cap, 
too!" 

But  the  darkness  refreshed  his  tired  eyes,  and  sleep  at 
last  brought  him  a  merciful  outlet  from  a  world  in  which 
you  could  act  your  best  and  still  be  funnier  than  a  cross-eyed 
man. 

He  awakened  long  past  his  usual  hour  and  occupied  his 
first  conscious  moments  in  convincing  himself  that  the 
scandal  of  the  night  before  had  not  been  a  bad  dream. 

The  shock  was  a  little  dulled  now.    He  began  absurdly 


312  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

to  remember  the  comments  of  those  who  had  appeared 
to  enjoy  the  unworthy  entertainment.  Undoubtedly  many 
people  had  mentioned  him  with  warm  approval.  But  such 
praise  was  surely  nothing  to  take  comfort  from.  He  was 
aroused  from  this  retrospection  by  a  knock  on  his  door. 

It  proved  to  be  Mr.  Patterson  bearing  a  tray.  "Mrs.  P. 
thought  that  you  being  up  so  late  last  night  mebbe  would 
like  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  bite  of  something  before  you  went 
out."  The  man's  manner  was  newly  respectful.  In  this 
house,  at  least,  Merton  Gill  was  still  someone. 

He  thanked  his  host,  and  consumed  the  coffee  and  toast 
with  a  novel  sense  of  importance.  The  courtesy  was  unprec- 
edented. Mrs.  Patterson  had  indeed  been  sincere.  And 
scarcely  had  he  finished  dressing  when  Mr.  Patterson  was 
again  at  the  door. 

"A  gentleman  downstairs  to  see  you,  Mr.  Armytage.  "He 
says  his  name  is  Walberg  but  you  don't  know  him.  He  says 
it's  a  business  matter." 

"Very  well,  I'll  be  down."  A  business  matter?  He  had 
no  business  matters  with  any  one  except  Baird. 

He  was  smitten  with  a  quick  and  quite  illogical  fear. 
Perhaps  he  would  not  have  to  tear  up  that  contract  and  hurl 
it  in  the  face  of  the  manager  who  had  betrayed  him.  Perhaps 
the  manager  himself  would  do  the  tearing.  Perhaps  Baird, 
after  seeing  the  picture,  had  decided  that  Merton  Gill  would 
not  do.  Instantly  he  felt  resentful.  Hadn't  he  given  the 
best  that  was  in  him?  Was  it  his  fault  if  other  actors  had 
turned  into  farce  one  of  the  worth-while  things? 

He  went  to  meet  Mr.  Walberg  with  this  resentment  so 
warm  that  his  greeting  of  the  strange  gentleman  was  gruff 
and  short.  The  caller,  an  alert,  businesslike  man,  came 
at  once  to  his  point.  He  was,  it  proved,  not  the  repre- 
sentative of  a  possibly  repenting  Baird.  He  was,  on  the 
contrary,  representing  a  rival  producer.  He  extended  his 
card — The  Bigart  Comedies. 

"I  got  your  address  from  the  Holden  office,  Mr.  Army- 
tage. I  guess  I  routed  you  out  of  bed,  eh?  Well,  it's  like 


"FIVE  REELS— 500  LAUGHS"  313 

this,  if  you  ain't  sewed  up  with  Baird  yet,  the  Bigart  people 
would  like  to  talk  a  little  business  to  you.  How  about 
it?" 

"Business?"  Mr.  Armytage  fairly  exploded  this.  He 
was  unhappy  and  puzzled;  in  consequence,  unamiable. 

"Sure,  business,"  confirmed  Mr.  Walberg.  "I  under- 
stand you  just  finished  another  five-reeler  for  the  Buckeye 
outfit,  but  how  about  some  stuff  for  us  now?  We  can  give 
you  as  good  a  company  as  that  one  last  night  and  a  good  line 
of  comedy.  We  got  a  gag  man  that  simply  never  gets  to 
the  end  of  his  string.  He's  doping  out  something  right  now 
that  would  fit  you  like  a  glove — and  say,  it  would  be  a  great 
idea  to  kind  a'  specialize  in  that  spur  act  of  yours.  That 
got  over  big.  We  could  work  it  in  again.  An  act  like  that's 
good  for  a  million  laughs." 

Mr.  Armytage  eyed  Mr.  Walberg  coldly.  Even  Mr.  Wal- 
berg felt  an  extensive  area  of  glaciation  setting  in. 

"I  wouldn't  think  of  it,"  said  the  actor,  still  gruffly. 

"Do  ycu  mean  that  you  can't  come  to  the  Bigart  at  all — 
on  any  proposition?" 

"That's  what  I  mean,"  confirmed  Mr.  Armytage. 

"Would  three  hundred  and  fifty  a  week  interest  you?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Armytage,  though  he  gulped  twice  before 
achieving  it. 

Mr.  Walberg  reported  to  his  people  that  this  Armytage 
lad  was  one  hard-boiled  proposition.  He'd  seen  lots  of  'em 
in  his  time,  but  this  bird  was  a  wonder. 

Yet  Mr.  Armytage  was  not  really  so  granitic  of  nature  as 
the  Bigart  emissary  had  thought  him.  He  had  begun  the 
interview  with  a  smouldering  resentment  due  to  a  mis- 
apprehension; he  had  been  outraged  by  a  suggestion  that 
the  spurs  be  again  put  to  their  offensive  use;  and  he  had 
been  stunned  by  an  offer  of  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
a  week.  That  was  all. 

Here  was  a  new  angle  to  the  puzzles  that  distracted  him. 
He  was  not  only  praised  by  the  witless,  but  he  had  been 
found  desirable  by  certain  discerning  overlords  of  filmdom. 


314  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

What  could  be  the  secret  of  a  talent  that  caused  people, 
after  viewing  it  but  once,  to  make  reckless  offers? 

And  another  thing — why  had  he  allowed  Baird  to  "sew 
him  up"?  The  Montague  girl  again  occupied  the  fore- 
ground of  his  troubled  musings.  She,  with  her  airs  of  wise 
importance,  had  helped  to  sew  him  up.  She  was  a  helpless 
thing,  after  all,  and  false  of  nature.  He  would  have  matters 
out  with  her  this  very  day.  But  first  he  must  confront 
Baird  in  a  scene  of  scorn  and  reprobation. 

On  the  car  he  became  aware  that  far  back  in  remote 
caverns  of  his  mind  there  ran  a  teasing  memory  of  some  book 
on  the  shelves  of  the  Simsbury  public  library.  He  was 
sure  it  was  not  a  book  he  had  read.  It  was  merely  the  title 
that  hid  itself.  Only  this  had  ever  interested  him,  and  it 
but  momentarily.  So  much  he  knew.  A  book's  title  had 
lodged  in  his  mind,  remained  there,  and  was  now  curiously 
stirring  in  some  direct  relation  to  his  present  perplexities. 

But  it  kept  its  face  averted.  He  could  not  read  it.  Vaguely 
he  identified  the  nameless  book  with  Tessie  Kearns;  he 
could  not  divine  how,  because  it  was  not  her  book  and  he 
had  never  seen  it  except  on  the  library  shelf. 

The  nameless  book  persistently  danced  before  him.  He 
was  glad  of  this.  It  kept  him  at  moments  from  thinking  of 
the  loathly  Baird. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  TRAGIC  COMEDIAN 

PENETRATING  the  Holden  lot  he  was  relieved  to 
find  that  he  created  no  immediate  sensation.  People 
did  not  halt  to  point  derisive  fingers  at  him;  he  had 
half  feared  they  would.  As  he  approached  the  office  build- 
ing he  was  almost  certain  he  saw  Baird  turn  in  ahead  of  him. 
Yet  when  he  entered  the  outer  room  of  the  Buckeye  offices 
a  young  woman  looked  up  from  her  typewriter  to  tell  him  that 
Mr.  Baird  was  not  in. 

She  was  a  serious-eyed  young  woman  of  a  sincere  manner; 
she  spoke  with  certainty  of  tone.  Mr.  Baird  was  not  only  out, 
but  he  would  not  be  in  for  several  days.  His  physician  had 
ordered  him  to  a  sanitarium. 

The  young  woman  resumed  her  typing;  she  did  not  again 
glance  up.  The  caller  seemed  to  consider  waiting  on  a  chance 
that  she  had  been  misinformed.  He  was  now  sure  he  had 
seen  Baird  enter  the  building,  and  the  door  of  his  private 
office  was  closed.  The  caller  idled  outside  the  railing,  ab- 
sently regarding  stills  of  past  Buckeye  atrocities  that  had 
been  hung  upon  the  walls  of  the  office  by  someone  with 
primitive  tastes  in  decoration.  He  was  debating  a  direct 
challenge  of  the  young  woman's  veracity. 

What  would  she  say  if  told  that  the  caller  meant  to 
wait  right  there  until  Mr.  Baird  should  convalesce?  He 
managed  some  appraising  side-glances  at  her  as  she  bent 
over  her  machine.  She  seemed  to  believe  he  had  already 
gone. 

Then  he  did  go.  No  good  talking  that  way  to  a  girl.  If 

it  had  been  a  man,  now "You  tell  Mr.  Baird  that  Mr. 

315 


316  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

Gill's  got  to  see  him  as  soon  as  possible  about  something 
important,"  he  directed  from  the  open  door. 

The  young  woman  raised  her  serious  eyes  to  his  and 
nodded.  She  resumed  her  work.  The  door  closed. 

Upon  its  closing  the  door  of  Baird's  private  office  opened 
noiselessly  to  a  crack  that  sufficed  for  the  speaking  voice  at 
very  moderate  pitch  to  issue. 

"Get  Miss  Montague  on  the  'phone,"  directed  the  voice. 
The  door  closed  noiselessly.  Beyond  it  Mr.  Baird  was 
presently  speaking  in  low,  sweet  tones. 

"'Lo,  Sister!  Listen;  that  squirrel  just  boiled  in  here, 
and  I  ducked  him.  I  told  the  girl  I  wasn't  to  be  in  unless  he 
was  laughing  all  over,  and  he  wasn't  doing  the  least  little 
thing  that  was  anywheres  near  laughing.  See  what  I 
mean?  It's  up  to  you  now.  You  started  it;  you  got  to 
finish  it.  I've  irised  out.  Get  me?" 

On  the  steps  outside  the  rebuffed  Merton  Gill  glanced  at 
his  own  natty  wrist-watch,  bought  with  some  of  the  later 
wages  of  his  shame.  It  was  the  luncheon  hour;  mechanically 
he  made  his  way  to  the  cafeteria.  He  had  ceased  to  re- 
hearse the  speech  a  doughtier  Baird  would  now  have  been 
hearing. 

Instead  he  roughly  drafted  one  that  Sarah  Nevada  Mon- 
tague could  not  long  evade.  Even  on  her  dying  bed  she 
would  be  compelled  to  listen.  The  practising  orator  with 
bent  head  mumbled  as  he  walked.  He  still  mumbled  as  he 
indicated  a  choice  of  foods  at  the  cafeteria  counter;  he  con- 
tinued to  be  thus  absorbed  as  he  found  a  table  near  the 
centre  of  the  room. 

He  arranged  his  assortment  of  viands.  "You  led  me 
on,  that's  what  you  did,"  he  continued  to  the  absent 
culprit.  "Led  me  on  to  make  a  laughing-stock  of  myself, 
that's  what  you  did.  Made  a  fool  of  me,  that's  what  you 
did." 

"All  the  same,  I  can't  help  thinking  he's  a  harm  to  the 
industry,"  came  the  crisp  tones  of  Henshaw  from  an  adjoin- 
ing table.  The  rehearsing  orator  glanced  up  to  discover 


THE  TRAGIC  COMEDIAN  317 

that  the  director  and  the  sunny-faced  brown  and  gray  man 
he  called  Governor  were  smoking  above  the  plates  of  their 
finished  luncheon. 

"I  wouldn't  worry  too  much,"  suggested  the  cheerful 
governor. 

"But  see  what  he  does:  he  takes  the  good  old  reliable, 
sure-fire  stuff  and  makes  fun  of  it.  I  admit  it's  funny  to 
start  with,  but  what '11  happen  to  us  if  the  picture  public  ever 
finds  that  out?  What '11  we  do  then  for  drama — after  they've 
learned  to  laugh  at  the  old  stuff?" 

"Tush,  tush,  my  boy!"  The  Governor  waved  a  half- 
consumed  cigarette  until  its  ash  fell.  "Never  fear.  Do  you 
think  a  thousand  Jeff  Bairds  could  make  the  picture  public 
laugh  at  the  old  stuff  when  it's  played  straight?  They 
laughed  last  night,  yes;  but  not  so  much  at  the  really  fine 
burlesque;  they  guffawed  at  the  slap-stick  stuff  that  went 
with  it.  Baird's  shrewd.  He  knows  if  he  played  straight 
burlesque  he'd  never  make  a  dollar,  so  notice  how  he'll  give 
a  bit  of  straight  that  is  genuine  art,  then  a  bit  of  slap-stick 
that  any  one  can  get.  The  slap-stick  is  what  carries  the 
show.  Real  burlesque  is  criticism,  my  boy;  sometimes  the 
very  high-browest  sort.  It  demands  sophistication,  a  pretty 
high  intelligence  in  the  man  that  gets  it. 

"All  right.  Now  take  your  picture  public.  Twenty 
million  people  every  day;  not  the  same  ones  every  day,  but 
with  same  average  cranial  index,  which  is  low  for  all  but 
about  seven  out  of  every  hundred.  That's  natural  be- 
cause there  aren't  twenty  million  people  in  the  world  with 
taste  or  real  intelligence — probably  not  five  million.  Well, 
you  take  this  twenty  million  bunch  that  we  sell  to  every 
day,  and  suppose  they  saw  that  lovely  thing  last  night — 
don't  you  know  they'd  all  be  back  to-night  to  see  a  real 
mopping  mother  with  a  real  son  falsely  accused  of  crime — 
sure  they'd  be  back,  their  heads  bloody  but  unbowed. 
Don't  worry;  that  reliable  field  marshal,  old  General  Hokum, 
leads  an  unbeatable  army." 

Merton  Gill  had  listened  to  the  beginning  of  this  harangue, 


318  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

but  now  he  savagely  devoured  food.  He  thought  this  so- 
called  Governor  was  too  much  like  Baird. 

"Well,  Governor,  I  hope  you're  right.  But  that  was 
pretty  keen  stuff  last  night.  That  first  bit  won't  do  Parma- 
lee  any  good,  and  that  Buck  Benson  stuff — you  can't  tell 
me  a  little  more  of  that  wouldn't  make  Benson  look  around 
for  a  new  play." 

"But  I  do  tell  you  just  that.  It  won't  hurt  Parmalee  a 
bit;  and  Benson  can  go  on  Bensoning  to  the  end  of  time — to 
big  money.  You  keep  forgetting  this  twenty-million  audi- 
ence. Go  out  and  buy  a  picture  magazine  and  read  it 
through,  just  to  remind  you.  They  want  hokum,  and  pay 
for  it.  Even  this  thing  of  Baird's,  with  all  the  saving  slap- 
stick, is  over  the  heads  of  a  good  hah9  of  them.  I'll  make  a 
bet  with  you  now,  anything  you  name,  that  it  won't  gross 
two  thirds  as  much  as  Benson's  next  Western,  and  in  that 
they'll  cry  their  eyes  out  when  he  kisses  his  horse  good-bye. 
See  if  they  don't.  Or  see  if  they  don't  bawl  at  the  next  old 
gray-haired  mother  with  a  mop  and  a  son  that  gets  in  bad. 

"Why,  if  you  give  'em  hokum  they  don't  even  demand 
acting.  Look  at  our  own  star,  Mercer.  You  know  as  well 
as  I  do  that  she  not  only  can't  act,  but  she's  merely  a  beauti- 
ful moron.  In  a  world  where  right  prevailed  she'd  be 
crowned  queen  of  the  morons  without  question.  She  may 
have  an  idea  that  two  and  two  make  four,  but  if  she  has 
it's  only  because  she  believes  everything  she  hears.  And 
look  at  the  mail  she  gets.  Every  last  one  of  the  twenty 
million  has  written  to  tell  her  what  a  noble  actress  she  is. 
She  even  believes  that. 

"Baird  can  keep  on  with  the  burlesque  stuff,  but  his 
little  old  two-reelers  '11  probably  have  to  pay  for  it,  es- 
pecially if  he  keeps  those  high-priced  people.  I'll  bet  that 
one  new  man  of  his  sets  him  back  seven  hundred  and  fifty  a 
week.  The  Lord  knows  he's  worth  every  cent  of  it.  My  boy, 
tell  me,  did  you  ever  in  all  your  life  see  a  lovelier  imitation 
of  a  perfectly  rotten  actor?  There's  an  artist  for  you.  Who 
is  he,  anyway?  Where 'd  he  come  from?" 


THE  TRAGIC  COMEDIAN  319 

Merton  Gill  again  listened;  he  was  merely  affecting  to 
busy  himself  with  a  fork.  It  was  good  acting. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Henshaw.  "Some  of  the  crowd 
last  night  said  he  was  just  an  extra  that  Baird  dug  up  on 
the  lot  here.  And,  on  the  subject  of  burlesque,  they  also 
said  Baird  was  having  him  do  some  Edgar  Wayne  stuff  in  a 
new  one." 

"Fine!"  The  Governor  beamed.  "Can't  you  see  him  as 
the  honest,  likable  country  boy?  I  bet  he'll  be  good  to  his 
old  mother  in  this  one,  too,  and  get  the  best  of  the  city 
slickers  hi  the  end.  For  heaven's  sake  don't  let  me  miss 
it!  This  kid  last  night  handed  me  laughs  that  were  better 
than  a  month's  vacation  for  this  old  carcass  of  mine.  You 
say  he  was  just  an  extra?" 

"That's  what  I  heard  last  night.  Anyway,  he's  all  you 
say  he  is  as  an  artist.  Where  do  you  suppose  he  got  it?  Do 
you  suppose  he's  just  the  casual  genius  that  comes  along  from 
time  to  time?  And  why  didn't  he  stay  *  straight'  instead 
of  playing  horse  with  the  sacred  traditions  of  our  art?  That's 
what  troubled  me  as  I  watched  him.  Even  in  that  wild 
business  with  the  spurs  he  was  the  artist  every  second.  He 
must  have  tricked  those  falls  but  I  couldn't  catch  him  at  it. 
Why  should  such  a  man  tie  up  with  Baird?" 

"Ask  me  something  hard.  I'd  say  this  bird  had  been  tried 
out  in  serious  stuff  and  couldn't  make  the  grade.  That's  the 
way  he  struck  me.  Probably  he  once  thought  he  could  play 
Hamlet — one  of  those  boys.  Didn't  you  get  the  real  pathos 
he'd  turn  on  now  and  then?  He  actually  had  me  kind  of 
teary  a  couple  of  times.  But  I  could  see  he'd  also  make 
me  laugh  my  head  off  any  time  he  showed  in  a  straight 
piece. 

"To  begin  with,  look  at  that  low-comedy  face  of  his. 
And  then — something  peculiar — even  while  he's  imitating 
a  bad  actor  you  feel  somehow  that  it  isn't  all  imitation. 
It's  art,  I  grant  you,  but  you  feel  he'd  still  be  a  bad  actor 
if  he'd  try  to  imitate  a  good  one.  Somehow  he  found  out 
his  limits  and  decided  to  be  what  God  meant  him  to  be. 


320  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

Does  that  answer  you?  It  gives  you  acting-plus,  and  if 
that  isn't  the  plus  in  this  case  I  miss  my  guess." 

"I  suppose  you're  right — something  like  that.  And  of 
course  the  real  pathos  is  there.  It  has  to  be.  There  never 
was  a  great  comedian  without  it,  and  this  one  is  great.  I 
admit  that,  and  I  admit  all  you  say  about  our  audience.  I 
suppose  we  can't  ever  sell  to  twenty  million  people  a  day 
pictures  that  make  any  demand  on  the  human  intelligence. 
But  couldn't  we  sell  something  better  to  one  million — or 
a  few  thousand?" 

The  Governor  dropped  his  cigarette  end  into  the  dregs 
of  his  coffee.  "We  might,"  he  said,  "if  we  were  endowed. 
As  it  is,  to  make  pictures  we  must  make  money.  To  make 
money  we  must  sell  to  the  mob.  And  the  mob  reaches  full 
mental  bloom  at  the  age  of  fifteen.  It  won't  buy  pictures 
the  average  child  can't  get." 

"Of  course  the  art  is  in  its  infancy,"  remarked  Henshaw, 
discarding  his  own  cigarette. 

"Ours  is  the  Peter  Pan  of  the  arts,"  announced  the  Gov- 
ernor, as  he  rose. 

"The  Peter  Pan  of  the  arts " 

"Yes.  I  trust  you  recall  the  outstanding  biological 
freakishness  of  Peter." 

"Oh  {"replied  Henshaw. 

When  Merton  Gill  dared  to  glance  up  a  moment  later  the 
men  were  matching  coins  at  the  counter.  When  they  went 
out  he  left  a  half -eaten  meal  and  presently  might  have  been 
observed  on  a  swift-rolling  street-car.  He  mumbled  as  he 
blankly  surveyed  palm-bordered  building  sites  along  the  way. 
He  was  again  rehearsing  a  tense  scene  with  the  Montague 
girl.  In  actor  parlance  he  was  giving  himself  all  the  best 
of  it.  But  they  were  new  lines  he  mumbled  over  and  over. 
And  he  was  no  longer  eluded  by  the  title  of  that  book  he 
remembered  on  the  library  shelf  at  Simsbury.  Sitting  in 
the  cafeteria  listening  to  strange  talk,  lashed  by  cruel  memo- 
ries, it  had  flashed  upon  his  vision  with  the  stark  definition 
of  a  screened  subtitle. 


THE  TRAGIC  COMEDIAN  321 

He  rang  the  Montague  bell  twice  before  he  heard  a  faint 
summons  to  enter.  Upon  the  parlour  couch,  under  blankets 
that  reached  her  pillowed  head,  lay  Sarah.  She  was  pale 
and  seemed  to  suffer.  She  greeted  him  in  a  feeble  voice, 
lids  fluttering  over  the  fires  of  that  mysterious  fever  burning 
far  back  in  her  eyes. 

"Hullo,  Kid,"  he  began  brightly.     "Here's  your  watch." 

Her  doubting  glance  hovered  over  him  as  he  smiled  down 
at  her.  "You  giving  it  to  me  again,  Merton?"  She  seemed 
unable  to  conquer  a  stubborn  incredulity. 

"Of  course  I'm  giving  it  to  you  again.  What'd  you  think 
I  was  going  to  do?" 

She  still  surveyed  him  with  little  veiled  glances.  "You 
look  so  bright  you  give  me  Kleig  eyes,"  she  said.  She  man- 
aged a  wan  smile  at  this. 

"Take  it,"  he  insisted,  extending  the  package.  "Of 
course  it  won't  keep  Western  Union  time,  but  it'll  look  good 
on  you." 

She  appeared  to  be  gaining  on  her  incredulity,  but  a 
vestige  of  it  remained.  "I  won't  touch  it,"  she  declared 
with  more  spirit  than  could  have  been  expected  from  the 
perishing,  "I  won't  touch  it  till  you  give  me  a  good  big 
kiss." 

"Sure,"  he  said,  and  leaned  down  to  brush  her  pale  cheek 
with  his  lips.  He  was  cheerfully  businesslike  in  this  cere- 
mony. 

"Not  till  you  do  it  right,"  she  persisted.  He  knelt  be- 
side the  couch  and  did  it  right.  He  lingered  with  a  hand 
upon  her  pale  brow. 

"What  you  afraid  of?"  he  demanded. 

"You,"  she  said,  but  now  she  again  brought  the  watch  to 
view,  holding  it  away  from  her,  studying  its  glitter  from 
various  angles.  At  last  she  turned  her  eyes  up  to  his.  They 
were  alive  but  unrevealing.  "Well?" 

"Well?"  he  repeated  coolly. 

"Oh,  stop  it!"  Again  there  was  more  energy  than  the 
moribund  are  wont  to  manifest.  There  was  even  a  vigorous 


MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

impatience  in  her  tone  as  she  went  on,  "You  know  well 
enough  what  I  was  afraid  of.  And  you  know  well  enough 
what  I  want  to  hear  right  now.  Shoot,  can't  you?" 

He  shot.  He  stood  up,  backed  away  from  the  couch  to 
where  he  could  conveniently  regard  its  stricken  occupant, 
and  shot  gaily. 

"Well,  it'll  be  a  good  lesson  to  you  about  me,  this  thing 
of  your  thinking  I  was  fooled  over  that  piece.  I  s'pose  you 
and  Baird  had  it  between  you  all  the  time,  right  down  to  the 
very  last,  that  I  thought  he  was  doin'  a  serious  play.  Ho,  ho ! " 
He  laughed  gibingly.  It  was  a  masterful  laugh.  "A 
serious  play  with  a  cross-eyed  man  doing  funny  stuff  all 
through.  I  thought  it  was  serious,  did  I?  Yes,  I  did!" 
Again  the  dry,  scornful  laugh  of  superiority.  "Didn't  you 
people  know  that  I  knew  what  I  could  do  and  what  I  couldn't 
do?  I  should  have  thought  that  little  thing  would  of 
occurred  to  you  all  the  time.  Didn't  you  s'pose  I  knew  as 
well  as  any  one  that  I  got  a  low-comedy  face  and  couldn't 
ever  make  the  grade  in  a  serious  piece? 

"Of  course  I  know  I  got  real  pathos — look  how  I  turned 
it  on  a  couple  o*  times  in  that  piece  last  night — but  even  when 
I'm  imitating  a  bad  actor  you  can  see  it  ain't  all  acting. 
You'd  see  soon  enough  I  was  a  bad  actor  if  I  tried  to  imitate 
a  good  one.  I  guess  you'd  see  that  pretty  quick.  Didn't 
you  and  Baird  even  s'pose  I'd  found  out  my  limits  and  de- 
cided to  be  what  God  meant  me  to  be? 

"But  I  got  the  pathos  all  right,  and  you  can't  name  one 
great  comedian  that  don't  need  pathos  more'n  he  needs 
anything  else.  He  just  has  to  have  it — and  I  got  it.  I  got 
acting-plus;  that's  what  I  got.  I  knew  it  all  the  time;  and 
a  whole  lot  of  other  people  knew  it  last  night.  You  could 
hear  fifty  of  'em  talking  about  it  when  I  came  out  of  the 
theatre,  saying  I  was  an  artist  and  all  like  that,  and  a  certain 
Los  Angeles  society  woman  that  you  can  bet  never  says 
things  she  don't  mean,  she  told  me  she  saw  lots  of  places 
in  this  piece  that  I  was  funnier  than  any  cross-eyed  man 
that  ever  lived. 


THE  TRAGIC  COMEDIAN  323 

"And  what  happens  this  morning?"  Hands  in  pockets 
he  swaggered  to  and  fro  past  the  couch. 

"Well,  nothing  happens  this  morning  except  people 
coming  around  to  sign  me  up  for  three  hundred  and  fifty 
a  week.  One  of  'em  said  not  an  hour  ago — he's  a  big  pro- 
ducer, too — that  Baird  ought  to  be  paying  me  seven  hun- 
dred and  fifty  because  I  earned  every  cent  of  it.  Of  course 
I  didn't  want  to  say  anything  the  other  day,  with  you  pre- 
tending to  know  so  much  about  contracts  and  all  that — I 
just  thought  I'd  let  you  go  on,  seeing  you  were  so  smart — 
and  I  signed  what  you  told  me  to.  But  I  know  I  should 
have  held  off — with  this  Bamberger  coming  over  from  the 
Bigart  when  I  was  hardly  out  of  bed,  and  says  will  three 
hundred  and  fifty  a  week  interest  me  and  promising  he'll 
give  me  a  chance  to  do  that  spur  act  again  that  was  the  hit 
of  the  piece " 

He  broke  off,  conscious  suddenly  that  the  girl  had  for 
some  time  been  holding  a  most  peculiar  stare  rigidly  upon 
him.  She  had  at  first  narrowed  her  right  eye  at  a  calculating 
angle  as  she  listened;  but  for  a  long  time  now  the  eyes  had 
been  widened  to  this  inexplicable  stare  eloquent  of  many 
hidden  things. 

As  he  stopped  his  speech,  made  ill  at  ease  by  the  in- 
cessant pressing  of  the  look,  he  was  caught  and  held  by  it 
to  a  longer  silence  than  he  had  meant  to  permit.  He  could 
now  read  meanings.  That  unflinching  look  incurred  by  his 
smooth  bluster  was  a  telling  blend  of  pity  and  of  wonder. 

"So  you  know,  do  you,"  she  demanded,  "that  you  look 
just  enough  too  much  like  Harold  Parmalee  so  that  you're 
funny?  I  mean,"  she  amended,  seeing  him  wince,  "that 
you  look  the  way  Parmalee  would  look  if  he  had  brains?" 

He  faltered  but  made  a  desperate  effort  to  recover  his 
balance. 

"And  besides,  what  difference  does  it  make?  If  we  did 
good  pictures  we'd  have  to  sell  'em  to  a  mob.  And  what's 
a  mob?  It's  fifteen  years  old  and  nothing  but  admirons,  or 
something  like  that,  like  Muriel  Mercer  that  wouldn't  know 


324  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

how  much  are  two  times  two  if  the  neighbours  didn't  get  it 
to  her " 

Again  he  had  run  down  under  her  level  look.  As  he 
stopped,  the  girl  on  the  couch  who  had  lain  with  the  blankets 
to  her  neck  suddenly  threw  them  aside  and  sat  up.  Sur- 
prisingly she  was  not  garbed  in  sick-bed  apparel.  She 
seemed  to  be  fully  dressed. 

A  long  moment  she  sat  thus,  regarding  him  still  with 
that  slow  look,  unbelieving  yet  cherishing.  His  eyes  fell 
at  last. 

"  Merton ! "  he  heard  her  say.  He  looked  up  but  she  did  not 
speak.  She  merely  gave  a  little  knowing  nod  of  the  head 
and  opened  her  arms  to  him.  Quickly  he  knelt  beside  her 
while  the  mothering  arms  enfolded  him.  A  hand  pulled 
his  head  to  her  breast  and  held  it  there.  Thus  she  rocked 
gently,  the  hand  gliding  up  to  smooth  his  hair.  Without 
words  she  cherished  him  thus  a  long  time.  The  gentle  rock- 
ing back  and  forth  continued. 

"It's — it's  like  that  other  time  you  found  me "  His 

bluster  had  gone.  He  was  not  sure  of  his  voice.  Even 
these  few  words  had  been  hard.  He  did  not  try  more. 

"There,  there,  there!"  she  whispered.  "It's  all  right, 
everything's  all  right.  Your  mother's  got  you  right  here 
and  she  ain't  ever  going  to  let  you  go — never  going  to  let 
you  go." 

She  was  patting  his  head  in  rhythm  with  her  rocking 
as  she  snuggled  and  soothed  him.  There  was  silence  for 
another  interval.  Then  she  began  to  croon  a  song  above 
him  as  she  rocked,  though  the  lyric  was  plainly  an  improv- 
isation. 

"Did  he  have  his  poor  old  mother  going  for  a  minute? 
Yes,  he  did.  He  had  her  going  for  a  minute,  for  a  minute. 
Yes,  he  had  her  going  good  for  a  minute. 

"But  oh,  he  won't  ever  fool  her  very  long,  very  long,  not 
very  long,  because  he  can't  fool  his  dear  old  mother  very 
long,  very  long;  and  he  can  bet  on  that,  bet  on  that,  so  he  can, 
bet  a  lot  of  money  on  that,  that,  that!" 


THE  TRAGIC  COMEDIAN  3*5 

Her  charge  had  grown  still  again,  but  she  did  not  relax 
her  tightened  arms. 
.     "Say,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Well,  honey." 

"You  know  those  benches  where  we  wait  for  the  cars?" 

"Do  I  know  them?"  The  imperative  inference  was  that 
she  did. 

"I  looked  at  the  store  yesterday.  The  sign  down  there 
says  'Himebaugh's  dignified  system  of  deferred  payments/  " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know." 

"Well,  I  saw  another  good  place — it  says  'The  house  of 
lucky  rings' — you  know — rings!" 

"Sure,  I  know.     That's  all  right." 

"Well,"  he  threw  off  the  arms  and  got  to  his  feet.  She 
stood  up  then. 

"Well,  all  right!" 

They  were  both  constrained  now.  Both  affected  an  ease 
that  neither  felt.  It  seemed  to  be  conceded  without  words 
that  they  must  very  lightly  skirt  the  edges  of  Merton  Gill's 
screen  art.  They  talked  a  long  time  volubly  of  other  things : 
of  the  girl's  illness  from  which  she  now  seemed  most  happily 
to  have  recovered,  of  whether  she  was  afraid  of  him — she 
professed  still  to  be — of  the  new  watch  whose  beauties  were 
newly  admired  when  it  had  been  adjusted  to  its  owner's 
wrist;  of  finances  they  talked,  and  even,  quite  simply,  of 
accessible  homes  where  two  could  live  as  cheaply  as  one. 

It  was  not  until  he  was  about  to  go,  when  he  stood  at  the 
door  while  the  girl  readjusted  his  cravat,  smoothed  his  hair, 
and  administered  a  final  series  of  pats  where  they  seemed 
most  needed,  that  he  broke  ever  so  slightly  through  the  re- 
serve which  both  had  felt  congealing  about  a  certain  topic. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  "I  happened  to  remember  the  title 
of  a  book  this  morning;  a  book  I  used  to  see  back  in  the 
public  library  at  home.  It  wasn't  one  I  ever  read.  Maybe 
Tessie  Kearns  read  it.  Anyway,  she  had  a  poem  she  likes 
a  lot  written  by  the  same  man.  She  used  to  read  me  good 
parts  of  it.  But  I  never  read  the  book  because  the  title 


326  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

sounded  kind  of  wild,  like  there  couldn't  be  any  such  thing. 
The  poem  had  just  a  plain  name;  it  was  called  'Lucile,' 
but  the  book  by  the  same  man  was  called  'The  Tragic  Com- 
edians/ You  wouldn't  think  there  could  be  a  tragic  com- 
edian would  you? — well,  look  at  me." 

She  looked  at  him,  with  that  elusive,  remote  flickering 
back  in  her  eyes,  but  she  only  said,  "Be  sure  and  come  take 
me  out  to  dinner.  To-night  I  can  eat.  And  don't  forget 
your  overcoat.  And  listen — don't  you  dare  go  into  Hime- 
baugh's  till  I  can  go  with  you." 

One  minute  after  he  had  gone  the  Montague  girl  was  at 
the  telephone. 

"Hello!  Mr.  Baird,  please.  Is  this  Mr.  Baird?  Well, 
Jeff,  everything's  jake.  Yeah.  The  poor  thing  was  pretty 
wild  when  he  got  here.  First  he  began  to  bluff.  He'd  got 
an  earful  from  someone,  probably  over  on  the  lot.  And 
he  put  it  over  on  me  for  a  minute,  too.  But  he  didn't  last 
good.  He  was  awful  broke  up  when  the  end  came.  Bless 
his  heart.  But  you  bet  I  kissed  the  hurt  place  and  made  it 
well.  How  about  him  now?  Jeff,  I'm  darned  if  I  can  tell 
except  he's  right  again.  When  he  got  here  he  was  some 
heart-broke  and  some  mad  and  some  set  up  on  account  of 
things  he  hears  about  himself.  I  guess  he's  that  way  still, 
except  I  mended  the  heart-break.  I  can't  quite  make  him 
out — he's  like  a  book  where  you  can't  guess  what's  coming 
in  the  next  chapter,  so  you  keep  on  reading.  I  can  see  we 
ain't  ever  going  to  talk  much  about  it — not  if  we  live  to- 
gether twenty  years.  What's  that?  Yeah.  Didn't  I  tell 
you  he  was  always  getting  me,  somehow?  Well,  now  I'm 
got.  Yeah.  We're  gonna  do  an  altar  walk.  What?  Oh, 
right  away.  Say,  honest,  Jeff,  I'll  never  have  an  easy 
minute  again  while  he's  out  of  my  sight.  Helpless!  You 
said  it.  Thanks,  Jeff.  I  know  that,  old  man.  Good-by!" 


CHAPTER  XX 

ONWARD  AND  UPWARD 

A"  THE  first  showing  of  the  Buckeye  company's  new 
five-reel  comedy — Five  Reels — 500  Laughs — en- 
titled Brewing  Trouble,  two  important  members 
of  its. cast  occupied  balcony  seats  and  one  of  them  throughout 
the  piece  brazenly  applauded  the  screen  art  of  her  husband. 
"I  don't  care  who  sees  me,"  she  would  reply  ever  and  again 
to  his  whispered  protests. 

The  new  piece  proved  to  be  a  rather  broadly  stressed 
burlesque  of  the  type  of  picture  drama  that  has  done  so  much 
to  endear  the  personality  of  Edgar  Wayne  to  his  public. 
It  was  accorded  a  hearty  reception.  There  was  nothing  to 
which  it  might  be  compared  save  the  company's  previous 
Hearts  on  Fire,  and  it  seemed  to  be  felt  that  the  present 
offering  had  surpassed  even  that  masterpiece  of  satire. 

The  Gills,  above  referred  to,  watched  the  unwinding  cel- 
luloid with  vastly  different  emotions.  Mrs.  Gill  was  hearty 
in  her  enjoyment,  as  has  been  indicated.  Her  husband, 
superficially,  was  not  displeased.  But  beneath  that  surface 
of  calm  approval — beneath  even  the  look  of  bored  indifference 
he  now  and  then  managed — there  still  ran  a  complication 
of  emotions,  not  the  least  of  which  was  honest  bewilderment. 
People  laughed,  so  it  must  be  funny.  And  it  was  good  to  be 
known  as  an  artist  of  worth,  even  if  the  effects  of  your  art 
were  unintended. 

It  was  no  shock  to  him  to  learn  now  that  the  mechanical 
appliance  in  his  screen-mother's  kitchen  was  a  still,  and  that 
the  grape  juice  the  honest  country  boy  purveyed  to  the  rich 
New  Yorker  had  been  improved  in  rank  defiance  of  a  con- 

327 


328  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

stitutional  amendment.  And  even  during  the  filming  of 
the  piece  he  had  suspected  that  the  little  sister,  so  engagingly 
played  by  the  present  Mrs.  Gill,  was  being  too  bold.  With 
slight  surprise,  therefore,  as  the  drama  unfolded,  he  saw 
that  she  had  in  the  most  brazen  manner  invited  the  atten- 
tions of  the  city  villains. 

She  had,  in  truth,  been  only  too  eager  to  be  lured  to  the 
great  city  with  all  its  pitfalls,  and  had  bidden  the  old  home 
farewell  in  her  simple  country  way  while  each  of  the  villains 
in  turn  had  awaited  her  in  his  motor-car.  What  Merton 
had  not  been  privileged  to  watch  were  the  later  develop- 
ments of  this  villainy.  For  just  beyond  the  little  hamlet  at 
a  lonely  spot  in  the  road  each  of  the  motor-cars  had  been 
stopped  by  a  cross-eyed  gentleman  looking  much  like  the 
clerk  in  the  hotel,  save  that  he  was  profusely  bewhiskered 
and  bore  side-arms  in  a  menacing  fashion. 

Declaring  that  no  scoundrel  could  take  his  little  daughter 
from  him,  he  deprived  the  villains  of  their  valuables,  so  that 
for  a  time  at  least  they  should  not  bring  other  unsuspecting 
girls  to  grief.  As  a  further  precaution  he  compelled  them 
to  abandon  their  motor-cars,  in  which  he  drove  off  with  the 
rescued  daughter.  He  was  later  seen  to  sell  the  cars  at  a 
wayside  garage,  and,  after  dividing  their  spoils  with  his  daugh- 
ter, to  hail  a  suburban  trolley  upon  which  they  both  returned 
to  the  home  nest,  where  the  little  girl  would  again  languish 
at  the  gate,  a  prey  to  any  designing  city  man  who  might 
pass. 

She  seemed  so  defenceless  in  her  wild-rose  beauty,  her 
longing  for  pretty  clothes  and  city  ways,  and  yet  so  capably 
protected  by  this  opportune  father  who  appeared  to  foresee 
the  moment  of  her  flights. 

He  learned  without  a  tremor  that  among  the  triumphs  of 
his  inventive  genius  had  been  a  machine  for  making  ten- 
dollar  bills,  at  which  the  New  York  capitalist  had  exclaimed 
that  the  state  right  for  Iowa  alone  would  bring  one  hundred 
thousand  dollars.  Even  more  remunerative,  it  would  seem, 
had  been  his  other  patent — the  folding  boomerang.  The 


ONWARD  AND  UPWARD  329 

manager  of  the  largest  boomerang  factory  in  Australia  stood 
ready  to  purchase  this  device  for  ten  million  dollars. 

And  there  was  a  final  view  of  the  little  home  after  pros- 
perity had  come  to  its  inmates  so  long  threatened  with  ruin. 
A  sign  over  the  door  read  "Ye  Olde  Fashioned  Gifte  Shoppe," 
and  under  it,  flaunted  to  the  wayside,  was  the  severely  sim- 
ple trade-device  of  a  high  boot. 

These  things  he  now  knew  were  to  be  expected  among  the 
deft  infamies  of  a  Buckeye  comedy.  But  the  present  piece 
held  in  store  for  him  a  complication  that,  despite  his  already 
rich  experience  of  Buckeye  methods,  caused  him  distressing 
periods  of  heat  and  cold  while  he  watched  its  incredible  un- 
folding. 

Early  in  the  piece,  indeed,  he  had  begun  to  suspect  in  the 
luring  of  his  little  sister  a  grotesque  parallel  to  the  bold  ad- 
vances made  him  by  the  New  York  society  girl.  He  at  once 
feared  some  such  interpretation  when  he  saw  himself  coy 
and  embarrassed  before  her  down-right  attack,  and  he  was 
certain  this  was  intended  when  he  beheld  himself  embraced 
by  this  reckless  young  woman  who  behaved  in  the  manner 
of  male  screen  idols  during  the  last  dozen  feet  of  the  last 
reel.  But  how  could  he  have  suspected  the  lengths  to 
which  a  perverted  spirit  of  satire  would  lead  the  Buckeye 
director? 

For  now  he  staggered  through  the  blinding  snow,  a  bundle 
clasped  to  his  breast.  He  fell,  half  fainting,  at  the  door  of 
the  old  home.  He  groped  for  the  knob  and  staggered  in 
to  kneel  at  his  mother's  feet.  And  she  sternly  repulsed  him, 
a  finger  pointing  to  the  still  open  door. 

Unbelievably  the  screen  made  her  say,  "He  wears  no 
ring.  Back  to  the  snow  with  'em  both!  Throw  'em  Way 
Down  East!" 

And  Baird  had  said  the  bundle  would  contain  one  of  his 
patents ! 

Mrs.  Gill  watched  this  scene  with  tense  absorption.  When, 
the  mother's  iron  heart  had  relented  she  turned  to  her  hus- 
band. "You  dear  thing,  that  was  a  beautiful  piece  of  work. 


330  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

You're  set  now.  That  cinches  your  future.  Only,  dearest, 
never,  never,  never  let  it  show  on  your  face  that  you  think 
it's  funny.  That's  all  you'll  ever  have  to  be  afraid  of  in  your 
work." 

"I  won't,"  he  said  stoutly. 

He  shivered — or  did  he  shudder? — and  quickly  reached 
to  take  her  hand.  It  was  a  simple,  direct  gesture,  yet  some- 
how it  richly  had  the  quality  of  pleading. 

"  Mother  understands, "  she  whispered.  "  Only  remember, 
you  mustn't  seem  to  think  it's  funny." 

"I  won't,"  he  said  again.  But  in  his  torn  heart  he  stub- 
bornly cried,  "I  don't,  I  don't!" 


Some  six  months  later  that  representative  magazine, 
Silver  Screenings,  emblazoned  upon  its  front  cover  a  promise 
that  hi  the  succeeding  number  would  appear  a  profusely 
illustrated  interview  by  Augusta  Blivens  with  that  rising 
young  screen  actor,  Merton  Gill. 

The  promise  was  kept.  The  interview  wandered  amid 
photographic  reproductions  of  the  luxurious  Hollywood 
bungalow,  set  among  palms  and  climbing  roses,  the  actor 
and  his  wife  in  their  high-powered  roadster  (Mrs.  Gill  at 
the  wheel) ;  the  actor  in  his  costume  of  chaps  and  sombrero, 
rolling  a  cigarette;  the  actor  in  evening  dress,  the  actor  in 
his  famous  scene  of  the  Christmas  eve  return  in  Brewing 
Trouble;  the  actor  regaining  his  feet  in  his  equally  famous 
scene  of  the  malignant  spurs;  the  actor  and  his  young  wife, 
on  the  lawn  before  the  bungalow,  and  the  young  wife 
aproned,  in  her  kitchen,  earnestly  busy  with  spoon  and  mixing 
bowl. 

"It  is  perhaps  not  generally  known,"  wrote  Miss  Blivens, 
"that  the  honour  of  having  discovered  this  latest  luminary  in 
the  stellar  firmament  should  be  credited  to  Director  Howard 
Henshaw  of  the  Victor  forces.  Indeed,  I  had  not  known 
this  myself  until  the  day  I  casually  mentioned  the  Gills  in 
his  presence.  I  lingered  on  a  set  of  Island  Love,  at  present 


ONWARD  AND  UPWARD  331 

being  filmed  by  this  master  of  the  unspoken  drama,  having 
but  a  moment  since  left  that  dainty  little  reigning  queen  of 
the  celluloid  dynasty,  Muriel  Mercer.  Seated  with  her  in 
the  tiny  bijou  boudoir  of  her  bungalow  dressing  room  on  the 
great  Holden  lot,  its  walls  lined  with  the  works  of  her  favour- 
ite authors — for  one  never  finds  this  soulful  little  girl  far 
from  the  books  that  have  developed  her  mentally  as  the  art 
of  the  screen  has  developed  her  emotionally — she  had  re- 
ferred me  to  the  director  when  I  sought  further  details  of 
her  forthcoming  great  production,  an  idyl  of  island  romance 
and  adventure.  And  presently,  when  I  had  secured  from  him 
the  information  I  needed  concerning  this  unique  little  drama 
of  the  great  South  Seas,  I  chanced  to  mention  my  approach- 
ing encounter  with  the  young  star  of  the  Buckeye  forces, 
an  encounter  to  which  I  looked  forward  with  some  dis- 
may. 

"Mr.  Henshaw,  pausing  in  his  task  of  effecting  certain 
changes  in  the  interior  of  the  island  hut,  reassured  me.  'You 
need  have  no  fear  about  your  meeting  with  Gill,'  he  said. 
'You  will  find  him  quite  simple  and  unaffected,  an  artist, 
and  yet  sanely  human.'  It  was  now  that  he  revealed  his  own 
part  in  the  launching  of  this  young  star.  'I  fancy  it  is  not 
generally  known,'  he  continued,  'that  to  me  should  go  the 
honour  of  having  "discovered"  Gill.  It  is  a  fact,  how- 
ever. 

' '  He  appeared  as  an  extra  one  morning  in  the  cabaret  scene 
we  used  in  Miss  Mercer's  tremendous  hit,  The  Blight  of 
Broadway.  Instantly,  as  you  may  suppose,  I  was  struck 
by  the  extraordinary  distinction  of  his  face  and  bearing. 
In  that  crowd  composed  of  average  extra  people  he  stood 
out  to  my  eye  as  one  made  for  big  things.  After  only  a 
moment's  chat  with  him  I  gave  him  a  seat  at  the  edge  of  the 
dancing  floor  and  used  him  most  effectively  in  portraying 
the  basic  idea  of  this  profoundly  stirring  drama  in  which 
Miss  Mercer  was  to  achieve  one  of  her  brightest  triumphs. 

" '  Watch  that  play  to-day;  you  will  discover  young  Gill  in 
many  of  the  close-ups  where,  under  my  direction,  he  brought 


332  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

out  the  psychological,  the  symbolic — if  I  may  use  the  term — 
values  of  the  great  idea  underlying  our  story.  Even  in  these 
bits  he  revealed  the  fine  artistry  which  he  has  since  demon- 
strated more  broadly  under  another  director. 

"  'To  my  lasting  regret  the  piece  was  then  too  far  along  to 
give  him  a  more  important  part,  though  I  intended  to  offer 
him  something  good  in  our  next  play  for  Muriel  Mercer — 
you  may  recall  her  gorgeous  success  in  Her  Father's  Wife — 
but  I  was  never  able  to  find  the  chap  again.  I  made  in- 
quiries, of  course,  and  felt  a  really  personal  sense  of  loss  when 
I  could  get  no  trace  of  him.  I  knew  then,  as  well  as  I  know 
now,  that  he  was  destined  for  eminence  in  our  world  of  painted 
shadows.  You  may  imagine  my  chagrin  late,*1  when  I 
learned  that  another  director  was  to  reap  the  rewards  of  a 
discovery  all  my  own.' 

"And  so,"  continued  Miss  Blivens,  "it  was  with  the  Hen- 
shaw  words  still  in  my  ears  that  I  first  came  into  the  pres- 
ence of  Merton  Gill,  feeling  that  he  would — as  he  at  once 
finely  did — put  me  at  my  ease.  Simple,  unaffected,  modest, 
he  is  one  whom  success  has  not  spoiled.  Both  on  the  set 
where  I  presently  found  him — playing  the  part  of  a  titled 
roue  in  the  new  Buckeye  comedy — to  be  called,  one  hears, 
'Nearly  Sweethearts  or  Something* — and  later  in  the  luxur- 
ious but  homelike  nest  which  the  young  star  has  provided 
for  his  bride  of  a  few  months — she  was  'Flips'  Montague,  one 
recalls,  daughter  of  a  long  line  of  theatrical  folk  dating  back 
to  days  of  the  merely  spoken  drama — he  proved  to  be  finely 
unspoiled  and  surprisingly  unlike  the  killingly  droll  mime 
of  the  Buckeye  constellation.  Indeed  one  cannot  but  be 
struck  at  once  by  the  deep  vein  of  seriousness  underlying  the 
comedian's  surface  drollery.  His  sense  of  humour  must  be 
tremendous;  and  yet  only  in  the  briefest  flashes  of  his  whim- 
sical manner  can  one  divine  it. 

"'Let  us  talk  only  of  my  work,'  he  begged  me.  'Only  that 
can  interest  my  public.'  And  so,  very  seriously,  we  talked 
of  his  work. 

"'Have  you  ever  thought  of  playing  serious  parts?'     I 


ONWARD  AND  UPWARD  333 

asked,  being  now  wholly  put  at  my  ease  by  his  friendly, 
unaffected  ways. 

"He  debated  a  moment,  his  face  rigidly  set,  inscrutable 
to  my  glance.  Then  he  relaxed  into  one  of  those  whimsi- 
cally appealing  smiles  that  somehow  are  acutely  eloquent  of 
pathos.  'Serious  parts — with  this  low-comedy  face  of  mine !' 
he  responded.  And  my  query  had  been  answered.  Yet 
he  went  on,  'No,  I  shall  never  play  Hamlet.  I  can  give  a 
good  imitation  of  a  bad  actor  but,  doubtless,  I  should  give 
a  very  bad  imitation  of  a  good  one. 

"'Et  vvilb,  Messieurs!'  I  remarked  to  myself.  The  man 
with  a  few  simple  strokes  of  the  brush  had  limned  me  his 
portrait.  And  I  was  struck  again  with  that  pathetic  appeal 
in  face  and  voice  as  he  spoke  so  confidingly.  After  all,  is 
not  pure  pathos  the  hall-mark  of  great  comedy?  We  laugh, 
but  more  poignantly  because  our  hearts  are  tugged  at.  And 
here  was  a  master  of  the  note  pathetic. 

"Who  that  has  roared  over  the  Gill  struggle  with  the  dread- 
ful spurs  was  not  even  at  the  climax  of  his  merriment  sym- 
pathetically aware  of  his  earnest  persistence,  the  pained  sin- 
cerity of  his  repeated  strivings,  the  genuine  anguish  distorting 
his  face  as  he  senses  the  everlasting  futility  of  his  efforts? 
Who  that  rocked  with  laughter  at  the  fox-trot  lesson  in 
Object,  Alimony,  could  be  impervious  to  the  facial  agony 
above  those  incompetent,  disobedient,  heedless  feet? 

"Here  was  honest  endeavour,  an  almost  prayerful  determi- 
nation, again  and  again  thwarted  by  feet  that  recked  not  of 
rhythm  or  even  of  bare  mechanical  accuracy.  Those  feet, 
so  apparently  aimless,  so  little  under  control,  were  perhaps 
the  most  mirthful  feet  that  ever  scored  failure  in  the  dance. 
But  the  face,  conscious  of  their  clumsiness,  was  a  mask  of 
fine  tragedy. 

"Such  is  the  combination,  it  seems  to  me,  that  has  pro- 
duced the  artistry  now  so  generally  applauded,  an  artistry 
that  perhaps  achieved  its  full  flowering  in  that  powerful  bit 
toward  the  close  of  Brewing  Trouble — the  return  of  the  erring 
son  with  his  agony  of  appeal  so  markedly  portrayed  that  for 


334  MERTON  OF  THE  MOVIES 

the  moment  one  almost  forgot  the  wildly  absurd  burlesque 
of  which  it  formed  the  joyous  yet  truly  emotional  apex.  I 
spoke  of  this. 

"'True  burlesque  is,  after  all,  the  highest  criticism,  don't 
you  think?'  he  asked  me.  'Doesn't  it  make  demands  which 
only  a  sophisticated  audience  can  meet — isn't  it  rather  high- 
brow criticism?'  And  I  saw  that  he  had  thought  deeply 
about  his  art. 

'"It  is  because  of  tnis,'  he  went  on,  'that  we  must  re- 
sort to  so  much  of  the  merely  slap-stick  stuff  in  our  comedies. 
For  after  all,  our  picture  audience,  twenty  million  people  a 
day — surely  one  can  make  no  great  demands  upon  their  in- 
telligence.' He  considered  a  moment,  seemingly  lost  in 
memories  of  his  work.  'I  dare  say,'  he  concluded,  'there  are 
not  twenty  million  people  of  taste  and  real  intelligence  in 
the  whole  world.' 

"Yet  it  must  not  be  thought  that  this  young  man  would 
play  the  cynic.  He  is  superbly  the  optimist,  though  now 
again  he  struck  a  note  of  almost  cynic  whimsicality.  'Of 

course  our  art  is  in  its  infancy '  He  waited  for  my  nod 

of  agreement,  then  dryly  added,  'We  must,  I  think,  consider 
it  the  Peter  Pan  of  the  arts.  And  I  dare  say  you  recall  the 
outstanding  biological  freakishness  of  Peter.'  But  a  smile 
— that  slow,  almost  puzzled  smile  of  his — accompanied  the 
words. 

"'You  might,'  he  told  me  at  parting,  'call  me  the  tragic 
comedian.'  And  again  I  saw  that  this  actor  is  set  apart 
from  the  run  of  his  brethren  by  an  almost  uncanny  gift  for 
introspection.  He  has  ruthlessly  analysed  himself.  He 
knows,  as  he  put  it,  'what  God  meant  him  to  be.'  Was 
here  a  hint  of  poor  Cyrano? 

"I  left  after  some  brief  reference  to  his  devoted  young 
wife,  who,  in  studio  or  home,  is  never  far  from  his  side. 

"'It  is  true  that  I  have  struggled  and  sacrificed  to  give 
the  public  something  better  and  finer,'  he  told  me  then; 
'but  I  owe  my  real  success  all  to  her.'  He  took  the  young 
wife's  hand  in  both  his  own,  and  very  simply,  unaffectedly, 


ONWARD  AND  UPWARD  835 

raised  it  to  his  cheek  where  he  held  it  a  moment,  with  that 
dreamy,  remembering  light  in  his  eyes,  as  of  one  striving 
to  recall  bits  of  his  past. 

" 'I  think  that's  all,'  he  said  at  last.  But  on  the  instant 
of  my  going  he  checked  me  once  more.  'No,  it  isn't  either.' 
He  brightened.  *I  want  you  to  tell  your  readers  that  this 
little  woman  is  more  than  my  wife — she  is  my  best  pal;  and, 
I  may  also  add,  my  severest  critic.' " 

THE  END 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


UL  1  9 

1  7 


SEP  12  1973 

SEP13RO 


JUN  1  2  RQTD 


78 

.MAY  2  0  1978  BEC'D 


50m-6,'67(H2523s8)2373 


